Feral (18 page)

“I'll be back in a minute.” Rich hurried away, returning with a stack of microfilm nearly as long as his arm. “This is what she was researching.” He fed reel after reel into the machine, showing Claire articles about odd incidents at Peculiar High in the years following Casey's death: water fountains gone berserk, flooding the floors. Strange knocking noises. Janitors reporting bleachers had pulled themselves out in the old gymnasium.

Her chest heaved as she read. “
This
was it?” she asked.

“I don't know what any of it could have amounted to. I was calling it Serena's silly ghost-hunter piece, and you already know Mavis thinks it's weak. All of those incidents were explained shortly after they took place,” Rich said softly. “Once the kids who'd been students with Casey had all graduated, it sort of—opened things up for everybody to start building on this story of a ghost haunting the basement. Nobody'd known him personally—they hadn't grown up with him—and it didn't really seem all that disrespectful. He was an urban legend, something that didn't seem real. Look at the dates, Claire. Every one of these incidents took place around Halloween. April Fools' Day. Senior Prank Day. Just kids—”

“Just kids being kids,” Claire interrupted. “I know what happens to kids,” she said gravely.

Rich leaned closer. “Yeah—I know you found Serena,” he said. “I was there, too, remember? I saw her out there. Just like you did. I was with you.”

Claire sighed, running her fingers through her wavy hair. He didn't have a clue.

“Why did Owen call you that?” Claire blurted. She'd wanted to ask ever since she'd heard it, during her first lunch period. “Wretch. Why did he say that?”

Rich flopped back into his own chair, shaking his head. “It's stupid, really. Serena and I were friends when we were little. She lived in your house until she was about ten, so we were neighbors. We were both sort of—on the fringe. She had asthma and braces, and we were both overweight. Not exactly the Bold and the Beautiful.

“But around middle school, she lost a lot of weight, and got really pretty. So she was suddenly acceptable for Becca to hang with. And I went through about four thousand growth spurts. Obviously,” he said, pointing at his chest. “They took her braces off, and they gave her one of those retainers for a while, the plastic kind that fits on the roof of your mouth? She had a really hard time talking around the thing, and when she said my name, it sounded like—”

“Wretch,” Claire finished.

“Right. And Becca started calling me that in this vicious way, like I was some awful person. Like I was some kind of hulking monster. I always thought it was her way of showing Serena I wasn't worth hanging with—that she needed to cut ties.”

“And Serena just went along with it?” Claire asked.

Rich shrugged. “I didn't hold it against her. We were twelve. She wanted to be popular. So be it.”

“But
you
didn't want to be inside the golden circle?” Claire asked.

Rich chuckled. “Don't you know that the people inside those circles aren't really gold? They're gold-
plated.
”

“Do you miss her?” Claire whispered.

“Sometimes. The old Serena, anyway, the fat one who wore braces and shared her favorite banana Popsicles in the summer. But that Serena's been gone a long time. The old Serena was just a little kid—and so was I.”

“The old Serena,” Claire repeated. She had been thinking of Rachelle in that way, too—
the old Rachelle
, that was the person she missed. The use of such a similar phrase made her feel an instant kinship with Rich.

“Becca was right,” Rich sighed. “I
should
have said something about her staying to work on her basement article. I think about it all the time—maybe it would have made a difference. Maybe someone would have found her—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

Rich pushed himself away from the table and disappeared into the local history room. While he was gone, Claire went through all the articles a second time, typing notes and names and a few quotes into her laptop. When Rich returned, he slid an old yearbook under her nose.

“Here, look at this. Casey's last school picture.”

Claire shuddered, staring into the face. The yearbook picture was far clearer than anything on microfilm. She could tell the boy had a thin frame. A peach-fuzz mustache. Déjà vu rippled down her arms as images slashed like painful light across her eyes. Uniforms. The ice. The dead rodent on her back porch, staring up at her with glassy, vacant eyes.
You like ratting us out?
And a boy, bobbing on his heels.

“Come on,” Rich said, reaching in front of her to slam the yearbook shut.

Claire jumped in her seat.

“My dad just texted. Now that you've got your backstory, I've got to stop by the church.”

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T
he inside of the Peculiar First Baptist Church was sparse—simple white walls, old-fashioned wooden pews, an upright piano. It had a funny smell, too, Claire noted as she and Rich stepped inside—not exactly old in the musty sense, like the school or the library. More like a grandmother's house. Like generations of the same family had trampled through the rooms, grown up right there between the same set of walls. Like decades of holidays and gatherings and tears and triumphs.

“I haven't been—in years,” she confessed, feeling self-conscious. In truth, Claire and her father had gone to church for weddings. The occasional funeral. Her father, the scientist, was not exactly regular-churchgoing material.

“Don't worry about it. I don't exactly live here, either,” Rich admitted.

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“It's by design. Dad figures if he lets me make my own decisions about going to church—about what I believe—there's nothing to rebel against. No preacher's kid gone wild. I'm here every once in a while, but not every weekend.”

Claire nodded as Rich led her down the stairs, into a basement with a large open space filled with tiny kindergarten-sized chairs and construction paper drawings. They passed a kitchen, the counter lined with paper plates for Sunday school snacks, and slipped into a small office where bookshelves were crammed full of volumes stacked every which way, where padded chairs filled corners and an overgrown philodendron wrapped its vines like tentacles around four filing cabinets. Pictures of a chubby boy took up a cluster of frames on the desk.

“Dad,” Rich called.

Pastor Ray glanced up from the screen of his laptop. He was every bit as big as Rich, his muscular arms tugging at the sleeves of a black sweatshirt. His balding head had been shaved clean, and he smiled at Rich as he pulled a pair of glasses from the tip of his nose and tossed them on his desktop.

“This is Claire. From the old Sims place,” Rich said.

“Ah, yes.” Pastor Ray stood, wrapping Claire's hand in both of his. The touch was warm, friendly, without being overly solicitous. “I've been meaning to come by and say hello,” he informed her. “Rich, though, is sometimes protective of new friends.” He winked, like he was sharing a secret with her, while Rich grumbled wordlessly under his breath.

“I was going to ask you to read this,” Pastor Ray told Rich, as he gestured toward his computer. “What I've started to prepare for the Sims funeral.”

Claire felt her stomach twist. The funeral. Somehow, she'd forgotten there would be a funeral.

“The school will shut down for the service, of course,” Pastor Ray said. “And all businesses will be closed. No doubt the whole town will turn out. I need your help figuring out how we'll get them all upstairs—those pews surely won't—” He shook his head. “But I really wanted you to look at what I'm preparing to say. You knew her.”

“When we were kids, Dad,” Rich said. “I haven't known Serena for a long time.”

Claire watched from her spot near the doorway. Even a disagreement with a father felt calm, when Rich was involved. No shouting, no gnashing of teeth.

“Well. I don't want to keep you two, but I'd appreciate it if you'd give this a look—”

“If you really want me to,” Rich conceded with a shrug. “But I'm sure that whatever you have planned—”

Pastor Ray's eyes drifted behind Rich's shoulder, toward the flat-screen TV anchored to his wall. He picked up a remote off the corner of his desk, aimed, and made the screen pop to life.

“. . . coming to you from the police station in Peculiar, where Sheriff Holman is preparing to address the community regarding the Sims case . . .”

“What's this?” Rich asked as voices continued to pour from the TV.

“Local Kansas City station. Been promising the results of Serena's autopsy all day,” Pastor Ray said.

Claire turned her own eyes toward the screen. The man who stepped up to a small cluster of microphones, sporting bulldog jowls and a large paunch, looked about as comfortable standing in front of the microphones as a girl in her first pair of heels. “Thank you all for coming today,” he grumbled into the mics. And shuffled nervously.

“My name is Sheriff Holman, and I would like to thank, first of all, the community of Peculiar for their outpouring of sympathy during this time. And on behalf of the Peculiar PD, I would also like to extend our condolences to the Sims family.

“The statement I will now read has been prepared by the coroner and the Peculiar Police Department.” He shuffled again, cleared his throat, sucked in a shuddery breath.

“The autopsy on Ms. Serena Sims has been completed. The coroner's examination indicates that Ms. Sims died of suffocation. There is no sign of foul play. The results show that Ms. Sims's death was not caused by strangulation—no petechial hemorrhaging present in the eyes, no tissue under the nails to indicate a struggle.

“To further explain how we reached this conclusion, the body of Ms. Sims was discovered in the wooded area behind Peculiar High. She was found beneath an ice-coated limb, wearing only her school uniform. We believe that the cancellation of school early on the day of the ice storm startled Ms. Sims—as I can assure you it startled other students and faculty. In her rush to leave school, Ms. Sims forgot her coat. But the doors, as the security guard has assured us, locked behind the students, in an effort to ensure that all would go home before the roads deteriorated.

“With only her school cardigan to protect her from the elements, Ms. Sims would surely want to get home as soon as possible. In her rush, we believe she decided to cut through the woods behind the school—a common practice among the students. The injuries to Ms. Sims's face helped us conclude that she was struck by a falling limb. A dislocated shoulder also led us to conclude that she was not instantly knocked unconscious, but attempted to get free. The weight of the immense branch would have made it impossible for her to breathe, leading to her suffocation. The official cause of Ms. Sims's death, therefore, is being classified as ‘accidental.'

“While we are sure the town will continue to mourn for our lost loved one, we can all rest assured that there was no criminal intent. Ms. Sims was unfortunately in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Pastor Ray hit the remote again, pressing “mute” as flashbulbs popped on the screen. “An accident,” he said, as though trying on the word for the first time..

Rich grunted and nodded.

“You don't want to listen to him answer any questions?” Claire asked.

“He won't,” Pastor Ray said.

Claire squinted at the screen, watching as Sheriff Holman nodded to the small crowd of reporters, waved, and disappeared inside the station.

“How did you know he wouldn't—” she started.

“Sheriff Holman,” Pastor Ray said as he slid back behind his desk, “would never say anything that wasn't prepared down to the last word. He doesn't know how to handle himself during an incident like this one, because he's never been asked to before. He's patrolled these roads with nothing much to do, throughout the course of his entire career.” Pastor Ray's eyes grew distant as he acknowledged, “He's always reminded me of a mean dog someone got to guard their house. But his owners spoiled him with table food, let him get fat and lazy, and now he doesn't even know how to handle basic commands. I've only known him to write maybe a half dozen speeding tickets in his entire career.”

“I can only think of three arrests,” Rich agreed. “And those were kids playing Halloween pranks. Come to think of it,” he added, “he can't even be trusted with tomatoes. He's let hornworms destroy them the past four summers.”

Pastor Ray chuckled along with Rich. “Hey!” he said suddenly. “He still has my barbecue tongs. From—”

“Two presidents ago?” Rich finished.

Pastor Ray laughed harder. “The portrait of hard work,” he quipped. He started to gesture back toward his laptop when he caught sight of Claire's horrified face.

“Rich,” he said. “Take your friend home. We can talk about the funeral later.”

Claire allowed Rich to steer her out of his father's office. “Is the sheriff really that bad?” she whispered as they reached the stairs.

“Oh, he's more funny than bad,” Rich said dismissively.

This time, though, when he smiled and put a hand on her arm, he didn't give Claire the same calm feeling. Not even close.

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C
laire unloaded the contents of her backpack across her bed—the printouts, the articles about strange, inexplicable events at Peculiar High. She reread every one of them, as the daytime light on the opposite side of her windows slid toward night.