The Body of Christopher Creed (19 page)

Chief Bowen kind of froze for a second. I could tell by his expression the computer disk was big on his mind.

"If this is about that computer disk, you're about to make a fool out of yourself." Bo jerked his eyes on me, then turned around in his seat. "Ali, where'd the computer disk come from?"

Ali had come tiptoeing up from behind with the french fries. Her hand was shaking as she spat out the story about going to the library on Friday and moving it out of the library's files because they were curious about what Mr. Ames had said about a possible suicide.

If the cops' wanting Bo had nothing to do with the disk, they would have cut Ali off or asked what-the-hell disk was she talking about. Someone had actually discovered what was on it, I gathered. My mom had called it a sleeping dog that could look very incriminating. I guessed her sleeping dog had woken up. Mrs. Creed had actually been quiet through Ali's two-minute explanation, but then she came to life in her loud way.

"No, no, no!" she blasted, making Ali jump. "Christopher did not write that note! My son had a happy life. There is no reason why he would—"

"Your son was a social retard!" Bo blasted. "Ask Ames, if you're too blind to see the truth!"

"Richardson, get up, before I cuff you and drag you out of here," Chief Bowen said.

Bo stood but kept up his tirade to Mrs. Creed. "You
know
your son was losing it. With a psycho for a mother and—"

"You're a fine person to be calling anybody names!" She turned to Chief Bowen, pointing a finger at Bo. "He already confessed to the phone call—"

That was the end of my silent act. I jumped up and grabbed Chief Bowen by the arm. "He didn't make the phone call.
7
made the phone call."

Chief Bowen stared at me for a moment, and there was anger in his face. He looked angry that I was messing up this whole thing. He tore his eyes away to Ali, who, good as her word, was trying to tell him, "Chief Bowen,
7
made the phone call."

Fortunately, she spoke too quietly, and I don't think he understood her. He was pushing past me, with Bo beside him, and I had to grab on to the table to keep from falling backward.

He said over his shoulder, "There's already a confession on the books. If you'd care to argue with Mr. Richardson about it, you're welcome to do that later."

I watched in stunned silence as he and Tiny started off with Bo. I could not believe I had just stood there and told every inch of the truth about the phone call, and Ali told the truth about the disk before that, and Bo was still walking off in between two cops—one cop who was a wife cheat—with a sociopathic mother bringing up the rear. I think I was still more scared than mad. I was scared that these allegedly respectable people let this thing get so bad. I guess I thought seeing a situation clearly was just part of being a grown-up.

I let fly at the backs of their heads, "You stupid people, you
know
he didn't kill anybody! You just have to find some way to keep your own screwed-up version of reality going—"

A hand slapped over my mouth, and I felt a massive arm pulling me backward. I watched Chief Bowen turn and give me some don't-tangle-with-me stare, and it's good Mr. Ames had his hand over my mouth because I was running through every curse word I knew. Bo was laughing at the top of his lungs, though I couldn't figure out what was funny.

Chief Bowen hollered to Mr. Ames, "Get him out of here."

I saw Chief Bowen turn to Mrs. Creed and bark, "Sylvia, you're not invited."

She stopped in her tracks, and that's all I remember until I was in Mr. Ames's office and he was pushing me into a chair. I fell into it hard. I didn't know he had grabbed Ali, too, and he flung her by the arm, but not as hard. She dropped into a chair, and I could hear Mrs. Creed's hagging voice from somewhere nearby.

It got drowned out a little by Mr. Ames's voice, which was right in my face. "If you want to win people over, you need to work on your tact. You're taking lessons from Bo Richardson—"

"...going to lie for that boy, you two will suffer very,
very
serious consequences!" Mrs. Creed's voice blasted.

I turned to see Mr. Ames grab the door handle. She was standing in his doorway. I thought he was going to slam the door in her face. He got it about halfway shut, then stopped. They stared at each other. He looked like he couldn't take much more of her constant badgering, but it was his job to be polite to parents, and he was having a real inner battle here. She looked defiant, and my stomach was twisting.

After a moment he cleared his throat and said softly, "You may come in. I think Torey and Ali and I would like to have a talk with you. We want to tell you about Chris."

Mrs. Creed sat
down slowly on a couch under the window as Mr. Ames shut the door. Her eyes shifted to him, then back to us. She firmly stuck out her chin, high, but her voice was shaking. "Fine. I'm here to listen."

She looked like listening was some sort of military paintest that she was being subjected to, and she would endure it because she was a great American. Mr. Ames sat behind his desk and said, "Torey, you've known Chris since you were born, practically. I would like you to ... share any thoughts that come to you. Sylvia, I want you to hear this. From another student."

That wasn't exactly what I was expecting.

"Well..." I hunted in my brain for something not too awful. "He was a good kid. I mean, he would never have thought to do drugs or cut school or curse somebody out—"

"He better not have," Mrs. Creed said, with a grin that died as fast as it came. She had her legs crossed, arms folded across her chest, and she wouldn't look at me. It's like these loudmouthed remarks were always on the tip of her tongue and she was just trying extra hard right now to hold them back. I wished she had tried harder with Chris.

"But he made it difficult to be a friend of his." I leaned forward. "I feel that—I think that ... he never had a chance to learn how to be a friend."

She swallowed. "I always encouraged my children to be kind."

"Oh, he was," I said quickly. "But not hurting people and knowing how to get along with people ... they're different. He was ... different."

She stared at her corner of the couch like a robot and spat out robot words. "I wanted him to be different. I did not get into the Naval Academy by being like everybody else."

I blurted out, "I can see why you wouldn't want him to be like some kids. But what's the matter with me? Or Alex?"

Her face flushed like maybe she knew for once that she'd put her foot in her mouth. "I didn't want my son doing drugs or staying out late or hanging out or making other bad choices he would pay for later."

"Well..." I stayed out until, like, three sometimes, but only at Alex's or Ryan's. I had been drunk a few times, yeah. But I didn't feel like a future convict. "Isn't there some way you could have thought of so he could have friends but not make bad choices?"

She just stared at this corner, all totally proud. Mr. Ames had been rocking in his chair. He stopped midrock and said, "Sylvia, I would not be putting you through this if I thought the Richardson boy killed your son."

He twisted around in his swivel chair when she didn't respond, and he laughed awkwardly. "I wouldn't put you through this if I thought Christopher was ... no longer with us."

A tear fell over her eyelashes, but she wiped it away almost as soon as it dropped. She glared at Mr. Ames. "I know what you think. You think this is another Digger Haines reenactment," she said. "You think my son, like Digger, is out there. And you're afraid if I don't stop pointing the finger that I'm going to end up suicidal like Bob Haines."

"No one has ever proven that Bob Haines committed suicide," Mr. Ames said quickly. "No one knows where he is today. But, yes, Sylvia, I think that ..." He trailed off and stared at his desk clock like he was agonizing inside.

I realized this was only the second time I'd heard anything about Digger Haines, yet Mrs. Creed knew about it, and as soon as she mentioned it to Mr. Ames, he knew it right away, too. It was like this big secret story all the grown-ups seemed to know about, but no one talked about it. Mrs. Creed squirmed uncomfortably.

"I don't plan on winding up dead, Glen. I have better ways to cope," she said quickly. "I would love to think my son is
out there.
Do I look like the morbid type who would prefer to think the worst in an awful case like this? Not at all, Glen. There's only one problem with your theory. My son could
not
have written that note!"

"What makes you so sure?" he asked.

"I know my son. My son was happy. My son had a very good life. And he was happy." She said that part twice, like, for emphasis. "And if he
didn't
write that note, what's the
conclusion,
Glen? Somebody
else
wrote the note!"

I shuddered, reminded of some ancient schoolteacher cackling at a kid in class. Mr. Ames cleared his throat, but before he could think of something to say, Ali piped up.

"I don't ... I just don't think he could be so happy watching everyone in his class go to dances and parties, and he wasn't allowed."

Mrs. Creed stared at Ali like she was crazy. "Chris was allowed to go out! We offered to
drive
him to the dances! I even signed up to
chaperone
the dances, before he said he wasn't really into them. How could I object to the very dances I offered to chaperone?"

This woman was an enormous stone wall. I wondered what she would make of it if one of us shared a bright question like,
Do you think your offering to chaperone had anything to do with Chris not being into it?
or,
Hey, great! What's better than driving to a dance with your mom, going in with your mom, and leaving with your mom?

"My dad chaperoned a couple of dances," Ali started out casually, "in, like ... sixth grade."

If Mrs. Creed got it, she didn't keep it. "I know my son! I also know that quintessential powder keg some people lovingly call the boondocks! I was raised down there, don't forget. I was a boon once."

I remembered hearing a few times over the years that Mrs. Creed was raised in the boondocks and that she'd had a hard life. But it never struck me as anything important. This time my eyes stuck on her as I watched her mouth move.

"They're not the victimized, misunderstood little darlings you make them out to be sometimes, Glen. My father was a drunkard. He used to tie me up with ropes and hang me upside down from the tree outside my bedroom window. After all the beatings I took as a kid, don't try and talk to me about any boon being incapable of murder."

"Don't you think you're generalizing a bit?" Mr. Ames asked quietly.

"Not about Bo Richardson. Are you forgetting what Mr. Richardson did to my Christopher last year?"

Mr. Ames sighed. I shifted around some more, and Ali was sucking air in and out like there was no tomorrow. This felt all wrong, but there didn't seem to be too much to say. I didn't need the graphic detail about Mrs. Creed being hung out with ropes to dry. It gave her some unfair advantage, in my mind.

"Pushing him over the bleachers is bad, Sylvia, but it doesn't amount to plotting a murder and covering it up," Mr. Ames said. "I've had problems with Bo Richardson, but he takes care of a lot of younger children at home, and he's got a good and responsible side as well. Don't forget, I've had problems with Chris, too, Sylvia. And I've also given him every possible break."

In other words, Mrs. Creed should lighten up on Bo due to the fact that so many teachers and principals had to break up fights, thanks to Chris's obnoxious streak.

"Well, it's not my fault that other children saw my son as an easy mark." She shrugged it off. "And need I remind you ... there is a boon, sitting in the Steepleton lockup, who confessed to extortion in my son's disappearance."

I blocked all bad thoughts out of my mind and repeated what I had said in the cafeteria. "I made the phone call, Mrs. Creed. That's the truth."

"Oh no, it's not." She stared at me, so sure, so unshakingly confident. She even broke into a snotty laugh like I was oh-so-stupid and didn't get anything over on her for a minute.

I went on in frustration. "Mrs. Creed! Bo knew you were mad because he pushed Chris off the bleachers last year. He was afraid you were going to accuse him of this, just because of the bleachers thing. He wanted to go into your house to see if he could find evidence of what really happened. I made the phone call so that he could get the evidence, so he wouldn't go to jail, and so everybody who counts on him could have a chance at not going down the tubes with him. It was me. I did it. That's the truth."

She stared at me like a corpse. I could not read her thoughts to save my life.

Ali cleared her throat. Her voice still shook, and I wanted to throttle her for her voice shaking, because we needed some strength to fight this woman's unblinking sureness. "And Mrs. Creed ... I was with Bo when we moved that file onto the computer disk. We got it from the library. It was already in the library's files. All we did was move it. I swear to—"

"Now, you listen to me!" Mrs. Creed was up and hovering over Ali's face so fast it looked like a military maneuver. Mr. Ames stood up, but she kept right on, almost nose to nose with Ali. "You people can sit here and tell your lies until hell freezes over. I do not care what you say, or what your agenda is. I care about one thing: taking that boondock kid who destroyed my life and making sure his life gets destroyed next."

She draped her handbag over her arm and straightened up stiffly. "Thank you for this most enlightening conversation, Glen. About chaperoning dances and curfews."

This sucks!
my brain screamed.

But her exit line to us was, "Bo Richardson is going to
hang.
"

It took a minute for her choice of words to sink in. My Psych teacher would definitely have called that a Freudian slip. A fire lit in my ribs, and I jumped up. I went to shout at her that hanging an innocent kid wouldn't erase her own childhood hangings. But by the time I found my voice, she was already gone.