Blood Will Tell (19 page)

Ruby had also seen his drawings. Everyone who had happened to sit by him had probably noticed them. On the edge of every handout or piece of notebook paper he doodled dinosaurs, arrows, hatchets, people with guns shooting at other people with guns, people bleeding, people with crosses over their eyes she assumed were meant to be dead. Sometimes he drew some guy who looked even more like a cartoon than the others, with swollen-looking arms. Even though Nick had never said, Ruby thought this guy was supposed to be Nick. Nick in some alternate universe where he wasn't skinny with his hair hanging in his eyes.

But in Nick's drawings, the buff guy was the good one. Fighting off the bad guys and saving pretty girls.

Not knifing pretty girls and leaving them in some vacant lot to die.

“He does like knives a lot,” she ventured to Alexis. How many times had she seen him playing with a knife, showing it off, trying to fling it into a tree trunk (and missing every time). It might be possible to construct a set of circumstances in which he had accidentally killed that girl.

“So?” Alexis said. “Every person in this van has a knife, even if it's just a Leatherman tool.” She pressed her lips together. “And there's no way he could have bashed that girl's head in with a brick. You saw what he was like just getting some of her blood on his gloves.”

Ruby wasn't sure this was convincing. “The cops would probably just say that was his guilty conscience.”

A half hour later Jon parked the van in a forested area next to two others, as well as a pickup truck. A little farther down the road sat an old blue Ford Taurus.

Chris, the sheriff's deputy, briefed them. “The point last seen is that vehicle.” He pointed at the Taurus. “Yesterday a hiker came across an older woman mushroom hunting near it. She said it was just for the day. She was dressed fairly warmly, but all he remembers her carrying are a bag and a walking stick. This morning the hiker was returning when he noticed the vehicle was still here. It was unlocked and there was no sign of the owner. So he alerted the sheriff's department.”

Chris looked down at his notes. “The car's owner is a seventy-seven-year-old woman named Lottie Landsman. She's about five eight and one-eighty. The hiker says she was wearing black pants and a purple hooded jacket. Her son says she knows the woods well. Then again, she is seventy-seven years old and has a bad knee. She's on a handful of medications for blood pressure, cholesterol, and acid reflux, but she could go at least another twenty-four hours before she would feel any side effects. Her son says she's very independent. And maybe getting to be a little forgetful. Daylight saving time only ended a few weeks ago, and she may not have factored that in.”

Jon added, “Mushroom pickers can get so focused on looking for mushrooms that they tend to wander. When they decide they're done, they look up and realize they don't recognize anything, and they often have no idea which direction they came from. Mushroom pickers are hard to track, since they aren't going ‘to'”—he made air quotes—“any specific place at all. They're just looking for mushrooms.”

“It's imperative that we find her today,” Chris continued. “Due to her age and the weather, the possibility she could survive a second night is slim. There's a tracking dog already out. But so far she hasn't turned up anything definitive. Hasty teams have cleared the local trails. And we have containment running the roads.” He paused. “But no sign of her. So far, all we really know is where she isn't. That's where you guys come in. We're going to do a grid search today. First, we need to figure out critical separation.”

In class, they had learned that to cover the most ground in a grid search, the searchers needed to be as far apart as possible and still see the smallest object they were looking for. A person was fairly big, so they could be pretty far apart, but not so far that the team members couldn't see each other.

Chris shrugged off his pack and put it down. “Imagine that this is an unresponsive person.” Each team member took a slightly different angle and walked away to the point where they could still see the pack and identify it. Then they all counted their paces from that point back to the pack and called out the number.

Mitchell averaged the results—in his head, which impressed Ruby—and used that number of paces to decide that the critical spacing was thirty feet. That way, if Lottie was lying unconscious between two searchers, she would still be seen. Critical spacing was affected not only by the size of the object, but also by the terrain, the weather, and more.

Because the line would otherwise be too spread out, he split them into two groups. Each would use one side of the road as a guide. “Remember to look up, down, and all around,” Mitchell said as they set their lines and got ready to count off.

Ruby looked under every bush and tree, while at the same time trying not to twist an ankle on a root or trip on a rock. All while keeping an eye on Ezra, who was on her left. They had done practice search grids before, but those had been in a fairly open area. Rugged terrain and dense brush made staying in line and on track a challenge. Every few minutes they would blow their whistles and listen for a yell. But each time, there was only silence.

After about an hour, Mitchell's radio crackled and he called a halt. When everyone had gathered around, he said, “We just heard from the dog handler.”

“So they found her?” Max asked. People were already starting to relax, rolling their necks, reaching for snacks.

“No.” Mitchell screwed up his face. “It turns out the dog was following the scent of the hiker who called it in. Not the mushroom picker. Nobody told the dog handler that someone else had been in the car, so she used the driver's seat as the scent article. The hiker sat there and looked through the glove compartment to get Lottie's name before he called us. So his scent was not only fresher than Lottie's, but he was also probably putting out more adrenaline.”

It was so frustrating, Ruby thought as they lined back up and began to search again. The dog had been following a promising clue, but it hadn't meant anything.

Something about the idea teased her. Something that might apply to Nick. But the harder she tried to pin it down, the more it slid away.

And then she forgot all about it when, after blowing their whistles for the millionth time, they heard a faint cry from the bottom of a steep embankment.

“Help! I've broken my ankle!”

 

CHAPTER 42

NICK

MONDAY

YOU'RE THE ONE

On Monday, Nick hadn't even made it through the main doors of the school when Carson Canterbery detached himself from a group of guys and marched straight up to him. Carson was a senior and had never paid any attention to Nick before.

“So is it true?” he demanded. He leaned down so his face was just a few inches from Nick's.

“Is what true?” Nick said, stalling for time.

“There are rumors going around that you're the one who knifed that girl to death last week.” Carson's breath smelled like bitter coffee.

“Of course it's not true.” Nick attempted to go around, but Carson slid sideways and blocked his path. He played basketball and had six inches on Nick, easy.

“But you live right next to where she was found.”

“No, it's like six blocks away. And besides, I'm not the one who did it.” How did anyone know he was a suspect? From reading the paper? From Mrs. Weissig? From the police themselves?

Carson nodded rapidly, as if Nick had just confirmed everything he had heard. After giving him one last long look, he finally stepped aside.

It pretty much went like that for the rest of the day. Kids stared at him, whispered, pointed. Fell silent if he got too close. Even stepped back from him as he walked down the hall.

At lunch, the same invisible force field kept people away. Only Sasha Madigan dared to breach it. Any other day, Nick would have loved to have Sasha lean in close. But not when she did it just so she could say, “Are you really a murder suspect?”

He was silent for a long moment, holding her gaze. “You know me, Sasha. What do you think?”

“Uh, I don't think you did it.” But she was backing away when she said it.

When the classroom phone rang in his art class an hour later, Nick wasn't surprised to be told he was wanted down at the office. Everyone, even the teacher, was silent as he gathered up his things. Some people looked away, not meeting his eyes. Others looked at him as if he weren't a person but a particularly fascinating traffic accident that had happened on the other side of the freeway. Nick resolved never to look at anyone like that ever again. Those people had probably never thought that someday someone might be staring at them as if they were a different species. As if they were a photo printed on paper, not a real person.

When he walked into the office, Mrs. Weissig stiffened. Her jaw jutted forward, making her look like a toad. But she wouldn't look him in the eye, just told him that Mr. Loughlin was waiting for him.

The principal steepled his fingers. “Look, Nick, we've been hearing from parents. They don't feel comfortable having you in school right now.”

Nick didn't hurry to volunteer anything. He wasn't going to make this easy for anyone. Not when it was his life that was being trashed. “And why is that?”

“The thing is, Nick, we've been informed that you're a person of interest in an ongoing murder investigation.”

Nick looked the principal straight in the eyes, kept looking even when the older man looked away. “You really think I'm a murderer?”

“Of course not, Nick.” He managed to look Nick in the face again. “It's just that we have to look at the needs of all the students.”
Nick, Nick, Nick.
The principal was using his name as often as a used-car salesman, and he was just as convincing. “This situation—which we all hope is only temporary—isn't conducive to a learning environment. Not for you, Nick, and not for the other students.”

“So you're just going to throw me under the bus?”

“Of course not. This is just a temporary situation.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn't bother to hide his sarcasm.

“Look, Nick, this isn't about just you. It's about the entire school. I have to think about the other eight hundred kids. What's the most fair thing for everyone? If you're innocent, you have nothing to worry about. We'll provide you with a tutor until this thing gets straightened out.” He got to his feet. “Let me walk you out.”

This couldn't be happening to him. A week ago he had saved a little girl's life. Now everyone thought he was a killer, not a hero.

Mr. Loughlin stood at the door, waiting for him. Nick didn't know what to do. So he pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his pack.

The bell rang as they were walking out of the office. The hall was full, but people slowed down and even stopped when they saw Nick walking with Mr. Loughlin. He started when he felt the principal's hand under his elbow.

“Just to be clear,” Mr. Loughlin said when they reached the city bus stop, “we don't want to see you on school grounds again.” After a moment, he added, “Not until this thing is straightened out.”

Nick was pretty sure that neither one of them believed that this would actually happen.

Once he got onto the bus, he turned his face toward the window and put his hand up to cover it. He closed his eyes. If anyone was staring at him, he did not want to see. As he walked home from the bus stop, Nick heard a car behind him. But it didn't pass. He looked over his shoulder. It was a brown Crown Victoria with a spotlight mounted above the driver's side mirror. An unmarked police car, but the driver, an impassive guy staring at him through sunglasses, obviously didn't care that Nick had just identified him. Nick looked closer. It was that Rich guy, Harriman's partner. And he just kept driving at the same speed as Nick walked.

As he turned onto his block, his phone rang. The caller ID showed
PORTLAND COUNTY SHERIFF.
Nick didn't want to hear what they had to say. Still, his thumb pushed the green button.

“Hello?”

“Is this Nick?”

“Yeah.”

“Nick, this is Deputy Nagle.”

You mean Chris?
Nick thought. He guessed that the days of Chris Nagle being Chris were over. “Yeah?”

“I've been having some conversations with the Portland police. For the time being, I'm taking you off the roster for Search and Rescue callouts. And we'll figure out a way for you to make up any missed classes.”

Nick was silent.

“I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. Not until this thing is resolved.” Chris didn't even bother to explain what “this thing” was.

For an answer, Nick hung up.

His dreams were all gone, stolen from him. His life was ruined. No school. No SAR. And, of course, there was no longer any point of thinking of the army.

Nearly everyone thought he was a murderer. Especially the cops. The only people who didn't were Alexis and Ruby.

He was trapped without any way out.

Except maybe there was always a way. If you were desperate enough.

After he let himself inside the empty house, he went down to the basement. He sifted through the junk drawer, through the bent screwdrivers and little screws that might come in handy, until he found the box cutter. He undid it, took out the razor blade and hid it under the insole of his shoe.

If they arrested him, he could always kill himself.

Kill himself before he ended up sharing a cell with his dad.

 

CHAPTER 43

NICK

MONDAY

READY TO THROW IN THE TOWEL

Kyle came into Nick's room without knocking.

“I don't believe it,” he said, looking disgusted. “I thought I smelled cigarette smoke.”

Nick took another drag on his cigarette. He had found the hidden pack when he was looking for the box cutter. He hadn't been able to find a lighter, so he had used one of the wooden kitchen matches they kept for when the gas stove was acting up.