Entanglements (12 page)

Scratched into the metal stall wall, graffiti bore the message: Tara sucks.

So does Kizzy
, I thought.
Kizzy sucks
.

“Talk to me.” Petra spoke from the other side of the metal door.

“Leave me alone,” I said. “I’m trying to pee.”

“You are not. You’re trying to avoid me. You wanna close yourself off like you did when Adam…” She pounded a hand on the door and I jumped. “But I’m not letting you.”

The outer door of the restroom swung open with a swishing sound and I heard Senji come in.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he called to me.

“Get out!” Petra ordered.

“Okay. Okay.”

When the swish of Senji's leaving sounded, I rose, opened the door and stepped out.

“All right. Here it is," I snapped. "You want to know what I’m going to do? I'm going to do nothing.“

Petra started to speak and I interrupted her.

“I keep failing.” My voice broke. “I failed Adam and now I’ve failed Juliette and Franky. I know I’m a coward but in the long run it’s better for everyone if I stop trying. I’ll only make things worse. So I’m going to do nothing.”

“You don’t fail. The thing with Adam...Who could have done any better under the circumstances?”

I would have spoken but she stopped me. Unlike the typical Petra, this one was totally serious as she gazed at me.

“And if even half of what Senji said about last night is true, you did all you could. You are so not a coward,” she said. “You’re whatever the polar opposite of coward is."

Her words struck me. Petra considered me brave?

"But you never ask people to help you," she continued. "We’re here.” She gently shook me. “I’m here. You don’t have to do everything alone all the time.”

The words echoed against the tile walls before the room went silent. Could I trust myself to do something to get Juliette and Franky back? Could I trust my friends to help? As much as I wanted to forget the vortex and everything associated with it, I would never forgive myself if I didn’t
try
to get Juliette and Franky back. Just as I would never forgive myself for losing Adam...but there was nothing I could do to save him now. One death on my conscience was enough.

“Even if I wanted to do something I have no idea where to even start,” I said. Then a thought struck. “Wait. Maybe there is something or someone.”

After flipping the notebook open, I paged through until I found the post-it.

“I could start with him.” I pointed to the name.

"We," she emphasized.

"We," I affirmed.

“Him who?” Petra asked.

“Remember the historian the librarian told us about yesterday?”

“Yes. No. I wasn’t really listening,” Petra admitted.

The second bell rang signaling class had started. I knew what I had to do. And it wasn’t going to class.

* * * * *

Petra insisted on going with me. I let her help since she had a license and a car whereas I didn’t. The address I had for the historian was in Pooler about ten miles away. We found an old faded green farmhouse at the end of a remote dirt driveway. The overgrowth on the property around it shielded the house from view on the adjacent street. We almost missed it but, at the last second, I saw the mailbox mounted on a tilting wood post bearing the address.

We exited the car. At least two separate dog “voices” barked from inside the rundown maintained house.
Big dogs
, I thought. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea after all. But since this was the most hopeful I’d felt since Juliette and Franky disappeared, I resolved to talk to Anderson. So despite the trepidation I had about a possible dog bite, Petra and I ascended the wood steps to the wrap around porch and approached the door. Lifting a hand, I prepared to knock.

“Get off my property.” The shout came from inside.

“Mr. Anderson?” I called. His words freaked me out but I tried to keep the tremble out of my voice. “Can we talk to you?”

“I don’t wanna buy no girl scout cookies.”

“We aren’t selling anything,” Petra said.

“What do you want?”

“The librarian at the Georgia Historical Society gave me your name and address," I replied. "She said you might be able to help us.”

“That ugly crone should mind her own business.”

I imagined a grizzled old curmudgeon of an academic on the other side of the closed door.

“Instead she violates my privacy.” A thump of impact from the inside against the door made us jump. “Go away.”

“Please, sir,” I said. “We need information about the tunnel at the old hospital.”

The silence that met my words lengthened.

“Hello?” I shouted. “Are you still there?”

“Why do you want to know about the tunnel?” His voice was so quiet, I had to lean in to hear him.

“We want to know anything you can tell us.”

“I didn’t say what. I said why. Why do you want to know?” he shouted. “Never mind, I don’t have time or patience for you. Go away.”

I heard footsteps walking off.

“Because there were monsters,” I shouted. “We want to know because monsters came out of the tunnel.”

The sound of returning footsteps penetrated the door before it opened. The man who stood before us didn't resemble the crusty, dusty academic of my imaginings. This guy was a ringer for the GI Joe Adam used to have, complete with his own semi-automatic rifle. I moved to take a step back and noticed Petra cowering behind me.

“Monsters?” He cocked his head to the side.

“Um,” I said, not sure of my decision to come here. But I definitely needed help. I had to trust somebody. “Last night my friends and I were in the tunnel and a vortex opened. Two monsters came out.”

“What did they look like?” His face didn't reveal any expression.

“One was big and hairy and kind of stocky. The other was dressed for riding in the English countryside and he had sharp teeth.”

“And what else?” His attitude somehow told me he knew something about the monsters. Or perhaps that was just my imagination.

Not wanting to tell him about Juliette and Franky I said, “Nothing else.”

“Strike one. You’re out.” He turned on his heel and walked back inside.

“Wait,” I said. “Aren’t you going to help us?”

“Tell whoever sent you here, I’m not playing their game.” He slammed the door in our faces.

“We’re not playing games,” Petra called out.

After scribbling on a piece of paper, I tore it out of the notebook and folded it.

“I’m leaving my name and telephone number. Please help us,” I shouted and slipped the note through the crack at the bottom of the door.

He didn’t answer and the door remained closed, so we walked back to Petra’s Buick. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the curtains on the front window part before they fell into place again.

Back in the car, Petra twisted the key in the ignition and the engine fired.

“Well! What was that?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” I felt defeated.

“What do we do now?” She backed from the Anderson driveway.

“I have no idea. I guess we go back to school.”

Petra pulled onto the street.

After a few minutes, she sat ramrod strait.

“Uh oh,” she said. “Dad’s gonna have a fit.”

“Huh?”

“There’s a police car behind me with its lights on.”

“What did you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, pull over,” I yelled.

“If I get a ticket, I’ll lose the car.” Petra pouted but veered to the shoulder and came to a stop.

A uniformed officer approached on the driver’s side, boots hitting the pavement hard. Petra pushed at the button to lower her window.

“Can you just let me go with a warning?” Petra asked before he’d even said a word.

“Are you Petra Walker?”

“Yes, but—”

He bent and peered in at me. “And are you Kizzy Taylor?”

This wasn’t good. “Yes, officer.”

“You two girls need to exit the vehicle and come with me.” He opened Petra’s door.

Chapter Eight

“You aren’t in any trouble, Kizzy.” The detective sitting at the table opposite me in the interrogation room offered a reassuring smile.

My eyes slid to Mom sitting next to me. She smiled benignly too as if in agreement. Usually when adults said you weren’t in trouble that meant you totally were in trouble…big trouble.

“Although you did skip school,” he pointed out with a chuckle. “It’s not every truant who gets a police escort.”

“Is that why I’m here? Because I skipped a couple of classes?” I pulled the surly teen card. “I already told you my homeroom teacher gave me permission to leave campus to do some research for a history paper.”

“She gave you permission to leave yesterday.” The detective lost his fake smile.

“I thought the permission extended to today.” I turned and said the words to Mom. “But why are we wasting time talking about my classes. Shouldn’t you be looking for Juliette?” I made my tone as petulant as possible while still maintaining minimum politeness. The goal was for him to be so sick of talking to the irritating brat that he’d let me go. “You said she’s missing didn’t you? Shouldn’t you be asking questions about her?”

Apparently, the police had come looking for me at school to question me about Juliette. When I wasn’t there, some alarms had been raised that I too might be missing.

The detective’s lips formed a tense line. “Do you know where she is?” He gulped a swig of coffee from the mug in front of him as if he wished it were whiskey.

“No.” I answered. “Can I go now?”

The detective shook his head.

“My daughter would have told me if she knew where her sister was,” Mom said.

“Stepsister, right?” the detective asked Mom.

“Well, yes but…”

“Mrs. Taylor—”

“Mrs. Moreno. It’s Mrs. Moreno. I’m remarried.”

“Mrs. Moreno I said you could be here out of deference for what your family is going through, what with your ex-husband about to go on trial for murder and attempted murder. But you can only stay if you don’t speak or interrupt my questions to your daughter.”

Mom sat back in her seat with a huff.

“When was the last time you saw Juliette?” the detective asked, turning to me.