Ghost Time (40 page)

This is what you came for? To show me this? I asked, cocking my chin at his scary black computer. Still seated, Foley practically bounced, clapping one hand on top of the other in his lap, and he said, No. No, thank you for reminding me. The main reason I’m here is that I wanted you to know that we received the results of your blood test, and we’re certain it’s not your blood, he said, and I said, I told you it wasn’t my blood, and Foley smiled. Yes, well. We’ve actually had your test results for some time, but I didn’t want to say anything while we were cross-checking our database, going back quite a few years. What’s most perplexing is that the blood found in Cam’s trunk matches the blood type of a little girl who died over five years ago in a fire in Southern California that was started by a boy named Jeremy Naas, a twelve-year-old arsonist. Which, statistically, is one of the first signs exhibited by serial killers, he said, leaning back, smug as could be. Jeremy Naz, I said, almost laughing, and Foley said, Naas, Theadora. N-A-A-S. The name is German, or in this case, more likely Norwegian in origin, and you know what it means?
Naas means fiery—purely coincidental, I’m sure, if you believe in coincidences. I said, I believe in coincidences, Foley; it’s you I don’t believe.

He just stared at me, so I stared back, looking at him, like, are you insane? I said, Foley, what are you talking about? And Foley said, Theadora, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but the boy you know as John Cameron Conlon was born Jeremy Naas, and he and his mother, Liv, changed their names ten months ago, when Jeremy was released from prison, after serving five years in a juvenile correction facility for the arson of a warehouse building that resulted in the death of a security guard’s four-year-old daughter. Apparently, the guard was a single father, and he had no choice that night but to take his little girl to work with him. No one knew she was sleeping in the man’s office, that he’d locked her inside, to be sure she was safe while he did his rounds, Foley said, twirling his thumbs.

No. All I could do was say no, no, no…. I don’t believe you, I said, no fucking way. Foley goes, The boy you knew as John Conlon was in a serious lockdown facility, believe it or not, Theadora. And I have to say, it couldn’t have been easy for such a pretty boy, being in prison, and I cut him off: I don’t believe you, I said, not a word. Foley nodded his head, sympathetically, and he said, Maybe not, but doesn’t it make you wonder how much you truly know about the boy, Theadora? Then he pulled a file out of his briefcase, this huge manila file, and he opened it, showing crime scene photos of the warehouse, what appeared to be a little girl’s body, hidden under a white sheet, and I had to look away, disgusted. No, I said, it doesn’t make me wonder. Why should I
believe you, anyway? Because I’m here, Theadora, and I have the proof, he said, showing me a picture of Cam, his police photo, headshots. Go on, Foley said, pushing the folder across our coffee table: look for yourself. No, I said, glaring at him, because he was enjoying this. Foley had known all along—he’d been waiting for this moment, telling me, and I felt so, so
violent
, my hands clenched in fists as I was gritting my teeth.

It was so absurd, but Foley just sat there, calmly, watching me, nodding. When I stopped, he goes, Also, Theadora, as I mentioned when we first met, there were two NSA agents on their way to arrest a renowned hacker named Jeremy Naas, alias John Cameron Conlon, when he left your house, here, on the afternoon of April 4, and I said, If that’s true, Foley, then why don’t you ask the agents where he is? And Foley said, Because they’re dead. Both NSA agents are dead, Theadora, he said, and my jaw dropped,
clunk.

I looked at my mom, the lawyers, none of them could look me in the eye, but I didn’t care. I managed to shut my mouth, and then I said, That’s not funny—that’s not funny at all, and Foley raised his brow, tilting his head to the side. He said, I couldn’t agree with you more, Theadora. It’s not funny that your boyfriend is missing, and two federal agents are dead. It’s not funny when local authorities handling the missing person’s investigation, Detective Knox and his colleagues, failed to discover blood in the trunk of John Conlon’s car that is not John Conlon’s blood, which matches the blood of the girl he inadvertently killed, six years ago. I said, If that’s true, about the agents, then why isn’t it in the news? Foley nodded, like he was overflowing
with compassion, and he goes, We’ve kept it under wraps—can’t have it on the nightly news or going viral on the Internet, can we? Thea, first things, first. If you don’t believe me, what I’m telling you about John Conlon, or Cam, as you call him, why don’t you ask his mother? Ask Karen Conlon who Jeremy Naas is. Jeremy Naas: N-A-A-S. Ask her, he said, folding his hands.

I thought I was going to be sick. I felt vomit building in my chest, my throat, heading for my mouth, and I turned and ran for the toilet. But I didn’t make it, and puke ran down the side of the toilet, the floor. My mom knocked and came in, but I didn’t turn around. I rested my head on the toilet seat: Let me be. Please, I said, and I could feel her open her mouth, then she changed her mind and quietly close the door, leaving me alone.

I waited in the bathroom until Foley and the lawyers left. Then I brushed my teeth and told my mom I was going out for some air—I think she knew, because she offered to give me a ride, and I said no. I slipped out the back, and when I got there, Karen was in the backyard, weeding, and I set down my bike, knocking on the gate. Thea! Well, hello, stranger! Come in, she said, taking off her gloves and giving me a kiss. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, she said, and I said, I need to talk to you about something. All right. Can I get you something to drink, Thee? she asked, opening the porch door, while I followed her inside. No, thank you, I said, having a hard time speaking. Please, sit down, she said, looking a the porch swing. Give me just a second to wash my hands and I’ll be right with you. Sure you don’t want some tea, something?

No, thank you, I said. Well, then, she said, sighing and smiling, walking back out on the porch. She looked tired, pale. What is it? she asked, smiling, sitting down beside me and grabbing my hands. Who is Jeremy Naas? I asked, practically pouncing. It hit her like a slap across the face, and she goes, Who told you that name? I go, Is it true, Karen? Is it true? I said, waiting, and until the very last second, I prayed she would deny it. But then she didn’t say anything, and I kept waiting. I said, Tell me it’s not true, Karen, please, and she almost stuttered, swallowing, and then she almost stuttered, swallowing, and then she said, I am so sorry.

I walked right past her, opened the screen door, and stormed down the hall, throwing Cam’s bedroom door open, staring at the ceiling—they were gone. The stars were gone, and Karen stood in the kitchen, her mouth wide open. Neat trick, I said, practically hissing, walking back outside, no idea what I was even doing. Karen closed the door behind her and then held up both hands, patting the air, telling me to calm down, and she said, Thea, what are you talking about? Now slow down, and talk to me, she said, and I said,
Talk to you?
How am I supposed to talk to you when, when I don’t… I don’t even know who you are? And she goes, I know how it must seem, and that was it: I snapped.

I go, You lied to me? All this time, you’ve been lying to me? She goes, Please, let me explain. I said no and she goes, Thea—he wanted to tell you. And I go, Not enough to tell me—and you—you! Everything I’ve been through, and you knew all along? She goes, He was afraid—we were both afraid, but then he met you
and he didn’t want you to know. I said, Tell me the truth. You could at least have had the decency to tell me the truth. What did he do? What did Cam do? Tell me, I said, and she goes, He started a fire—yes, he was very young, and he knew what he was doing, but he had no idea that… It was an accident, she said, looking down, and then I knew. She died, I said. And she nodded. I said, It’s true, then, that a little girl died in that fire? She nodded yes, again, and I reached for my bag and I took out my phone and I texted him, sitting on the swing with Karen, reading my text out loud as I typed: You
lied
to me. You’re a fucking liar!

I grabbed my bag, got up, and ran for the door—I bolted, Karen calling after me, Thea, please wait? I couldn’t get the door open, because it’s a little sticky, and because my hands were shaking so badly. Karen walked up, behind me and she said, Thea, I am so sorry, and I turned around and I looked at her, and I said, Sorry? You’re sorry? How can you be sorry when I don’t even know your real name, Karen? And then I walked out.

I got on my bike, and I knew exactly where I was going: the grocery store. To buy razors. And then the gas station, on my way home. To use their bathroom. I wanted it out, I wanted the pressure out, I had to get it out, and I didn’t even realize I was talking to him, until I heard my own voice say, Motherfucker, you mother fucker! No more—you lie to me, I’ll lie to you! And then my foot slipped, and I almost fell. I banged my shin on the pedal so hard, I had to get off, pull my bike over, off the street, then I just threw it down, on somebody’s yard, kneeling down on the sidewalk, and I bawled. Heaving, shaking, on my knees, the sobs couldn’t even find their way out. An old man wearing suspenders
and a madras shirt stopped watering his lawn, watching me, not knowing what to do, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care about any of it. Really, the one, the one person… Jesus Christ, the love of my life, that’s what I thought he was, and it was all a lie.

I lay there, on the ground, for I don’t know how long, but almost until sunset. And then I sat up, balancing on my elbow, looking around, and then I saw something, icing on the cake. Just down the sidewalk, about five feet away from where I was sitting, they’d just poured new cement in the sidewalk; it was fresh, and someone had written—not my writing, some little kid, someone who must have seen it on TV, they wrote TD + CC = TLA in a big heart with an arrow shooting through it. Looking at it, I grabbed my left shoulder, where my tattoo had been, and part of me wanted it back to keep. But another part of me wanted it back just so I could cut it out. I looked around in the grass, trying to find a stick, and I did, then I crossed it out. I had to really scrape, because it was almost dry, and I don’t know why, really, but I drew an anarchy symbol over the heart, and then I picked my bike up. Go to hell, I said.

(SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER)

8:14 PM

We were watching something on TV. I don’t remember what. I didn’t even care. I was sitting at the end of the couch, with my sketchbook open, remembering the moment I felt him standing there, behind me. I was thinking about the moment I felt him standing over me, watching me draw. I was thinking how odd it was that someone was standing over me, and I couldn’t imagine who, but I didn’t feel scared, either—no, I felt… I felt like he knew me. Like instead of waking into a dream, where you know everything that’s going on, but you don’t know how? For the first time, I felt like that, but waking into my own life, you know? Weird.

Honestly, it felt more like I’d been waiting for him all this time, so long I couldn’t remember when, and then, at that moment, when I finally looked up: seeing his face, his eyes. I swear, he is the most beautiful boy I have ever seen—like how can a boy be that beautiful? Thea? Mom said, and she startled
me. Like she’d been saying my name, but I didn’t hear her. Maybe she had.
What?
I snapped, then Rain Man goes, You’re smiling. He wasn’t teasing me, really, more like he’d never seen me smile before. Still, I go,
Shut up
, closing my sketchbook. Ray goes, What did I say? That’s when I knew my mom knew something was up. Not just because I’d been sitting there, staring at the television with some goofy smile on my face, but because she didn’t scold me or use that stern voice she puts on, when she’s saying, Don’t push your luck, kid. I think she knew I was thinking about a boy, and I think she was happy.

Just as I was leaving the room, we heard something, the strangest sound coming from my bedroom. Leave it to Ray to open his big mouth and insert his big foot again: What’s that? he said, looking around the room. I go, My phone, even though my back was turned, and Mom goes, It’s Thea’s phone, and I couldn’t see her, but I could tell she was giving him the eye:
Tell you later
. I didn’t even care what look she was giving him at that moment. It was all I could do not to sprint into my bedroom. I have a text,
I have a text
, I thought, closing my doors, rattling my fists to silence the squeal in my throat. And only then, shoving my hand in my bag, fishing for my phone, did it occur to me:
What if it’s not him?

My heart stopped for a second, then it started again: because I knew. Of course it’s him: ha! I blew on my knuckles: ha, and I wiped them against my chest, and then I wiped my hand against my tights, because my palms were sweaty. I don’t know where the words came from, but all I could think was,
Finally! It’s beginning—my life’s finally beginning!

(TEN WEEKS LATER)

7:02 PM

I made it to the end of the block, and then I stopped and hid behind empty trash and recycling cans, thinking I was going to be sick. I expected… I expected Karen to tell me it was insane, it was a lie, both. She didn’t. Because it wasn’t—it was insane, but it wasn’t a lie, and I got dizzy for a second, had to bend forward, taking deep breaths before I could stand again.

I didn’t know where to go, and I couldn’t go home, I just couldn’t. So I started walking to Silver Top, and halfway there, I got a text. From Jenna Darnell. She said she had something she very much wanted to show me, alone; it would only take a minute. I told her to meet me in ten minutes. I didn’t even care anymore: What, another sex tape? Another fantasy? Another dream for the whole world to see? I couldn’t feel anything, my whole body was buzzing, inside, outside. Seemed as good a time as any to see whatever it was, this breaking news.

She came alone. She had one of her news suits on, camera-ready. The Elders stopped talking, soon as she walked in, and she said hello. I don’t know if they greeted her or what, but she didn’t waste any time, either, sliding into the bench. We’re running a story tonight, and I wanted you to see it first, she said, pulling out her computer, pressing a key. The bus depot, the school bus garage—every bus in our entire school district was tagged. Every single bus in the fleet was tagged, she said, showing me individual photos that she took or one of her camera guys took. It looked like gibberish, if you just read a few of the words on each different bus. But it looked familiar, too, even though I couldn’t put it together right away. Not yet, she said, watching the buses pull out, fall into formation. Still nothing, just a dozen buses with white big black tags, a few letters, exclamation points, and then she pressed another key. I was getting impatient, like, whatever. Wait, she said. Now look here, she said, pulling up video from the camera in front of the high school. This was just this morning, she said, and then she hit play, so you see all the buses pulling in front of the high school, weaving in and out, and then, snap! She hit pause. And you could read the billboard the twelve buses made. You could read the gibberish, now that they were all lined up, it was a page from Hubble. Each bus had a few words, but together, in tableaux, you could read an entire paragraph from our notebook, what I wrote to Cam.