Turning Angel (43 page)

”Is that the root of your competitiveness?“ I asked.

Mia kept her eyes doggedly on the road. ”Part of it, I guess. Doesn’t matter now, does it?“

Mia knew almost every name on Kate’s hook-ups lists, and the picture that emerged from her time analysis was that Kate had been promiscuous during junior high and the early part of high school—before she began having intercourse—but beginning in the summer before the eleventh grade, she’d dated Steve Sayers exclusively. Two of the names Mia didn’t know had notations beside them indicating they had occurred while Kate was living in England. Only two names seemed remotely worth checking out as people Kate might have ”cheated on“ Drew to see, and thereby become the object of jealousy that led to murder.

Mia got her shocks from Kate’s ”rejected“ and ”rejected by“ lists. The fact that Kate had tried to seduce a girl named Laurel Goodrich made Mia gasp. The adults on Kate’s list didn’t surprise her, though. She agreed with Kate’s assessment of Mr. Dawson, the religion teacher, as a ”perv.“ The rejected ”Dr. Davenport“ turned out to be a psychologist who had commuted to Natchez for part of one year. The ”Dr. Lewis“ who had apparently rebuffed Kate’s advances was her longtime psychiatrist, who practiced in New Orleans. ”Mr. Marbury“ was a gymnastics coach who had worked with the cheerleaders for two summers. Mia seemed quite happy that he’d refused Kate’s attentions. When I read Wade Anders’s name from the list, Mia wrinkled her brow and turned to me.

”Kate says Coach Anders came on to her? Not the other way around?“

”Well, he’s under the ‘rejected’ column.“

”Huh.“

”What do you think about Coach Anders?“

”Wade’s okay. He’s never hit on me.“

”He told me a lot of girls have come on to him in his office.“

Mia nodded. ”Some girls think he’s hot—or they did before he gained that weight, anyway.“ She laughed softly. ”He did say something about my butt once.“

”What?“

”No way.“

”Come on.“

”God.“
She bowed her head as though mortified. ”He said I had a ghetto bootie.“

I grabbed the wheel to keep us on the road. ”Meaning?“

”You know…a butt like a black chick.“

I laughed at Mia’s expression of mixed embarrassment and amusement. ”
Do
you have one?“

”You tell me.“

”Yeah, you kind of do.“

She burst out laughing.

”It is a good one, though, I’ll admit that.“

”It better be,“ she said. ”I work on it enough.“

Now that we’ve covered the hook-ups lists, I’m reviewing the other entries in the journal, looking for things Mia might be able to clarify. Her cell phone has chirped a hundred times with text messages, but this time when she checks the phone, she pumps her hand in triumph. ”Got it!“

”What?“

”The last square. The party.“

”Where is it?“

”Oakfield.“

I can’t believe it. I figured the rave would happen in the middle of nowhere. Oakfield is an eighty-acre antebellum estate north of town, the site of one of the most beautiful Italianate mansions in the Natchez area. ”That’s a three-million-dollar house.“

Mia glances at me. ”Is it?“

”Easily.“

”Janie Moffitt’s grandparents own it. They’re out of town.“

”How many kids do you think will be there?“ I figure I’ve already seen forty to fifty en route to the party.

”There were a couple of hundred at the lake party. And with the terrible stuff that’s been happening, I have a feeling everybody will come to this one. X gives you that sense of total empathy, you know? Oneness with everybody. I think that’s what everyone’s looking for right now. Some way to share what they’re feeling.“

”If I weren’t here, would you take Ecstasy tonight?“

Mia glances over at me. ”I might take some anyway.“

The convoy turns left on Airport Road, which leads into the northwest part of the county. When I was in high school, we held a lot of informal parties under a tin-roofed pavilion near the airport. There was little danger of discovery, since the Natchez airport didn’t have commercial service (and still doesn’t). But Oakfield is truly high cotton. In California the estate would cost forty million dollars. The convoy slows, then turns onto the narrow lane that leads to the mansion.

”Get down,“ Mia says. ”I see the gate.“

The Accord slows to a stop, then creeps forward. From my nearly fetal position, I spy the head of a lion mounted on a tall stone gatepost. Mia jerks the blanket over my head and shoves me toward the floor with surprising strength.

”Mia!“
yells a male voice. ”S’up?“

”You’re up, Jamie.“

”You all by yourself?“

”As always.“

”It’s a crime, man.“

”Do I get in?“

”Hell, yeah. I want to dance with you. Be careful, though. It’s wild down there.“

Mia starts to drive off, but Jamie calls, ”Hold up!“

She skids to a stop on gravel.

”I almost forgot,“ Jamie says, giggling. ”Don’t forget this.“

It sounds as though something is changing hands at the window.

”Thanks, Dad,“ Mia says, and then she drives on.

”What was that?“ I ask.

She shoves something under the blanket. ”There you go, baby.“

I click on my penlight and see a yellow-and-white pacifier in her hand. From my years in Houston, I know the significance of the pacifier. MDMA—or ”X“—makes abusers grind their teeth. Ravers use pacifiers to prevent sore jaws the morning after, and also to prevent damage to their teeth.

”Wow,“
Mia says almost reverently.

”What is it?“

”Look outside. But be careful.“

I raise my head above the door frame. The rolling hills of Oakfield are flickering under multicolored spotlights. Tents of various sizes have been set up around the estate, and pounding techno rock rolls down from the mansion atop the hill on our left. Sixty yards ahead, a huge crowd of teenagers dances in front of a lighted stage. Pickup trucks and four-wheelers race over the hills in all directions, ramping into the air while kids in the beds behind scream and laugh.

”Is this how these things usually go?“ I ask.

Raucous male laughter followed by a female screech pierces my right ear. As I turn, three naked girls sprint toward Mia’s car, chased by two shirtless boys in blue jeans. One of the boys is spraying beer at the girls from a large bottle, while the other shoots at them with a battery-powered water gun. The first girl slams headlong into Mia’s right fender, then spins and darts across her headlight beams into the darkness on the other side of the road. A second girl follows, but the third falls laughing to the ground. The two boys fall beside or on top of her.

”No,“ Mia says softly. ”This is not the usual thing.“ She starts forward again, bringing us closer to the dancing throng. ”What do you want me to do?“

”I want to talk to Marko. Will the kids freak out if I get out and walk around this party?“

”They won’t freak, but it’ll get around that there’s somebody old here. They’ll probably ask you to leave.“

”Park in the dark, then. But put me where I can see the main action.“

She turns off the long driveway into a pit of blackness on the left. The Accord bumps up and down, then stops. ”You want me to hunt for Marko?“ she asks.

”If you’re up for it.“

”What if I find him? Do I just tell him you want to talk to him?“

Actually, I haven’t thought that far ahead.
”I don’t know.“

”Does he know you?“

”He knows me. But if you can get him over this way without letting him know what’s up, that would be good.“

Mia studies me in the dashboard lights. ”You mean pretend that I want to hook up with him.“

”If that’s not too scary, I guess so. I’ll take over as soon as I see you. You could ring my cell to give me a heads-up. One ring and I’ll see your ID.“

”Okay,“ she says finally. ”But I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Nobody’s seen Marko for two days.“ She reaches for her door handle.

I take her right wrist and squeeze it. ”Thanks, Mia.“

”No problem,“ she says, but she’s not smiling.

And then she is gone.

Someone is knocking on my door. I grab for the Browning in my jacket pocket, trying to remember where I am.

”Are you going to shoot me?“ Mia asks, sliding into the driver’s seat. The smell of alcohol wafts through the car. ”You fell asleep, didn’t you?“

”I guess so. Sorry.“

I didn’t tell her I was carrying a gun tonight, but she did give my coat a second look back at the hotel. It’s close to seventy degrees outside. ”What about Marko?“

”I couldn’t find him.“

”Has anyone seen him?“

”A lot of people saw him earlier. He was apparently up onstage with the DJ, dancing and talking to the crowd. He dedicated a song to Kate and Chris.“

”But nobody knows where he is?“

”No. He might be in one of the tents, but I’m not going in there for you.“

”Why not?“

”I’m just not.“

”What’s going on inside them? Drugs? What?“

Mia gives me a hard look. ”The kind of sex I’m not into, probably.“

”I wasn’t asking you to go. I just wanted to know.“

She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. She sounds a little out of breath.

”Did you take any Ecstasy?“ I ask.

”No. I was kidding before. I don’t do drugs. I had a couple of vodka shots, just talking to people.“

”What’s the general state of the crowd?“

”Up by the stage it’s mellow. Everybody’s hugging and holding hands. Out on the edges it’s out of control. The rednecks in the trucks are doing crystal meth. I saw a fight down by one of the ponds. Some of the girls are really drunk. Incomprehensible. That’s who winds up in the tents.“

I roll down my window to let the breeze blow across my face. ”Do anybody’s parents have any idea what’s going on out here?“

”I don’t think so. But they might by next week. I saw flashbulbs going off in one tent. You get naked out here, you’ll wind up on the Internet for sure.“

”Shit.“

Mia leans forward and pulls her hair into a ponytail, then puts an elastic band around it. ”What do you want to do now?“

”Let’s get back to the hotel and see what’s on Kate’s flash drives. We’re not doing Drew any good out here.“

She nods and starts the car.

”Hang on,“ I tell her, opening my door.

”Where are you going?“

”It’s a long ride back.“

”Oh. Don’t wander off.“

I walk a few yards down the hill, away from the car. As I unzip my pants, a truck rolls slowly up the drive. To escape its beams, I walk farther down the hill, toward a tall oak with low, spreading branches. After the truck’s headlights sweep past, I open my fly and begin urinating. I’m nearly done when a strangely musical voice seems to fall from the sky.

”My little bird likes what she sees.“

I jump backward and nearly piss on my leg. High-pitched laughter echoes through the dark.

”Who’s there?“ I ask anxiously.

”Up here,“ says the voice.

I look up. Lying in the bow of a horizontal oak limb is a shirtless teenager who looks a lot like Marko Bakic. Seated beside him, her bare legs hanging down in the air, is a girl who looks no older than fifteen.
Alicia Reynolds.
She’s shirtless, too, her breasts barely covered by a push-up bra. The white ring of a pacifier dangles from her puckered mouth.

”You can finish,“ she says, giggling around the pacifier. ”I’ve already seen it, anyway.“

The shirtless boy grins like the Cheshire Cat. ”Mr. Cage, right?“

The East European accent is unmistakable. It’s Marko, all right. I take a step forward and look up at him. ”Hello, Marko.“

”What brings you out here tonight, man? You looking to get high?“

”I came to see you, actually.“

The smile doesn’t waver. ”Yeah?“

”How can he just stop peeing like that?“ asks the girl. ”I couldn’t do that.“

”Go get yourself another drink,“ Marko tells her, never taking his eyes off me.

”I don’t want another drink.“

”Get lost, then. You can take this with you.“

He passes something small to her. Pills, no doubt. ”The rest of you go with her, okay?“

As though materializing out of thin air, three more young men drop to the ground from other limbs and start walking up to the road. Alicia goes with them. The back of one boy’s T-shirt reads, ”KA OLE MISS.“

After they disappear, Marko swings down from his perch. He’s about an inch taller than I, with lanky, muscular arms and a scrawny chest. His mouth is smiling, but it seems separated from his eyes somehow, which are watching me like the eyes of an animal uncertain whether to fight or flee.
Maybe it’s the drugs,
I think.

”What can I do for you, Mr. Cage?“

”Do you know about the Wilsons?“

The smile disappears. ”Sure. Terrible, yeah?“

”Were you home when the killers got there?“

Marko’s eyes narrow. ”No way. I’d have killed them right back.“

”I found the bodies.“

”I read that in the newspaper.“

I watch him for a while without speaking. The silence doesn’t seem to make him nervous. It’s making me nervous.

”Why are you carrying a gun?“ he asks. ”You scared?“

I guess in Sarajevo you learn to spot weapons pretty quick. ”Things are a little crazy in town just now. I like to know I have options.“

This earns a smile. ”Options…I like that. I like options, too.“

”Who killed the Wilsons, Marko? Who tried to hit you?“

He shrugs. ”Who knows, man? America’s a crazy country.“

Marko’s accent combined with his lanky physique makes me think of Goran Ivanisevic, the Croatian tennis star. Marko is actually handsomer than Ivanisevic, but not quite as wholesome looking.

”Listen, Marko,“ I say in a friendly voice, ”I’m not here to try to hurt you. In fact, if you let me, I can almost certainly help you. I know you’ve opened up some new drug markets with the white fraternities at Ole Miss and LSU. Some other places, too. But now that you’ve done that, you’re expendable.“

”Cyrus seems to think so.“

Honesty. A good start.
”Was it Cyrus who hit the Wilsons?“