Henry Franks (11 page)

“There's Oxford,” she said. “And probably others, and maybe hundreds of high schools, Ridgeford and Washford and Stepford and Fordford, I don't know, there has to be, don't you think?”

“Going to call all of them?” he asked, releasing his breath in a long slow stream, almost a whistle.

“I'm sorry, Henry.”

“Me too.” He looked up, moved the cursor to the X in the top right-hand corner of the screen, and closed the Stanford window.

“You all right?”

He shrugged even though she couldn't see it. “Not really sure what I was going to do with the information anyway.”

She laughed. “You could always just ask him, couldn't you?”

“We don't—” His voice cracked on the word. “It's not that easy.”

Henry turned off the light, crawling on top of the sheets with the phone on speaker lying on his chest.

“I'm sorry,” she said again.

“Not your fault. I'm used to it.”

“Still sorry.”

“Thanks,” he said, then let the silence play out. If he listened carefully, he imagined he could hear her breathing. The breeze blew a stray branch against his window, a light tap, followed by the whisper of her breath that seemed so close it was almost as though Justine was in the room with him.

“Justine?” he said.

Silence, save for the hiss and the tap.

“Hello?”

He picked the phone up in the darkness just as it started to ring.

“Sorry,” Justine said. “Got disconnected. Must have lost the signal there for a minute. Did I miss anything?”

Still, the hissing and the tapping, so close.

“No,” he said. “Nothing. Just the wind.”

“Night, Henry.”

“Good night, Justine.”

“Sweet dreams,” she said before the phone went dead.

Victim of Beating Wakes

Savannah, GA—August 24, 2009:
Brunswick Police Department spokesperson Carmella Rawls has confirmed that Elijah Suarez, 27, has recovered sufficiently from his injuries to provide information to authorities.

According to Major Daniel Johnson of FLETC, a growing profile of the random attacks that have occurred in the Golden Isles this summer has been enhanced by the active participation of Suarez.

“[His] back took a beating,” said a spokesperson for Memorial Hospital in Savannah who requested anonymity because they were not authorized to speak for the hospital. “Multiple contusions and breaks. He's lucky to be alive.”

Patrols on Jekyll Island have, at the request of the Jekyll Island Authority, been supplemented by National Parks Service personnel on loan from Skidaway Island, Crooked River, and other park locations throughout Georgia. In addition, the Georgia Bureau of Investigations has provided logistical support to the task force.

“We continue to support the efforts of all law enforcement here in Glynn County in order to resolve this unfortunate situation as quickly as possible,” said Mayor Monroe.

Brunswick Man Identifies Assailant;
Police Say No Apparent
Connection to Previous Murders

Brunswick, GA—August 25, 2009:
Unofficial sources have confirmed that Elijah Suarez, 27, of Blythe Island has provided a detailed description of his attacker to the police.

“There wasn't a lot of moonlight that night,” said one police officer on condition of anonymity due to the sensitive nature of the information. “Suarez got one look at her and was able to assist a sketch artist in producing the first real break in this case.”

Stepped-up patrols have blanketed Glynn County with the sketch of a woman who appears to be in her late 40's or early 50's with cloth bandages covering her hair. A Caucasian female with partially healed scratches on her face, wearing ratty clothes; she is estimated to weigh about 130 pounds.

According to Suarez, she didn't say a word as she clubbed him with her fists and a length of pipe, and police have been advised that she appears to be highly dangerous but unarmed.

“She spit at me, no tongue or something; couldn't understand a word she said,” Suarez said through an intermediary from his room at Memorial Hospital.

“At this time, despite the injuries sustained by Mr. Suarez, we are still unable to tie this particular attack to any of the previous incidents that have happened here in Glynn County over the past few months,” said Major Johnson. “We are dedicating all of our resources into locating the alleged suspect and resolving this matter.”

Margaret Saville, PhD
St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Patient: Henry Franks
(DOB: November 19, 1992)

“How's school?” Dr. Saville asked, her pen tapping against the pad.

Henry looked out the window trying to follow the path to its end. Behind a scruffy palm tree, a brief glimpse of ocean. Heat warped the air, distorting his vision.

“Henry?”

“Studying Shakespeare,” he said without looking at her.

“Poems or plays?”

“‘To sleep, perchance to dream.'”

“
Hamlet
. Is that it?”

He closed his eyes and turned toward her, “No,” he said. “Nothing.”

“Justine?”

He blinked, once, twice.

“You're smiling, Henry, and blushing. Justine?”

“I had another dream,” he said, running his fingers through his hair.

The pen stopped tapping. “Justine?” she asked again.

Against the fabric of the seat, his fingers flexed, stretching out and back, before he pushed himself off the couch. Two steps brought him across the room and the doctor shrank back between the high arms of her chair as his shadow fell over her, blocking the light from the window.

“Henry, please sit back down and let's talk.”

“I had a dream.”

“About Justine?”

“No,” he said, staring at the white path in the garden leading nowhere.

“Have you been practicing your breathing exercises?”

He shrugged. “I breathe. Does that count?”

“Will you be standing there long, Henry?”

He rested his forehead on the glass, absorbing the heat through the window. His hands rested on the smooth surface, fingers pressing down. He counted to ten in silence, then shrugged again.

“Where does the path go?”

“The path?” she asked, rising to stand beside him.

He pointed, his discolored finger tracing the route against the glass. “It goes nowhere.”

“Does that bother you?”

With a sigh, he turned to face her. She held the legal pad between them, the pen clutched in her fingers.

“I don't know,” he said. “I can't remember if I like gardens.”

“Process.”

“I know,” he said, then walked away and collapsed back onto the couch. “I don't think I want to remember any more.”

“Why?” she asked, leaning back against the windowsill.

He closed his eyes and the silence stretched out with his breathing.

“Henry?”

“I kissed her.” He smiled.

“Justine?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She kissed me back.”

“That's good, isn't it?” Dr. Saville asked.

Henry looked at her, his smile fading away, and then his head dropped down to his chest and he hid behind his hair again.

“I don't want to die,” he said.

She looked up at him, her breath catching on a cough. “Excuse me?”

“I had a dream.”

“What happened?”

“I couldn't find her. Elizabeth, she was gone and I couldn't find her.” He wiped his eyes then rubbed his nose on his sleeve. “Then, I remembered the last dream, where I killed her and I realized I'd never see her again. She's dead.”

“You're not Victor.” Dr. Saville crossed the room and knelt down next to him.

“She's never coming back. In my dream, I had nothing more to live for.”

“Henry?”

“I killed my daughter.”

“Just a dream,” she said.

“I killed her mother.”

“Henry, look at me.” Dr. Saville took his hands in hers, her fingers ice cold. “Henry.”

“I don't want to die. I kept saying that but no one would listen.”

“Who wouldn't listen?”

“Elizabeth. She couldn't hear me. No one heard me.” He pulled away from her, rubbing his fists into his eyes. A single drop of blood snaked down from his nose, leaving a red trail around his lips. Dr. Saville grabbed a tissue off the desk and handed it to him. “No one ever hears me.”

“It's all right, Henry.”

“I killed myself,” he said.

“In your dream?”

“After killing Elizabeth.” He shuddered and closed his eyes. He took a single breath and held it long past a count of ten.

“Breathe, Henry.”

He gasped, sucking in air. Stars danced in the corners of his vision as he hyperventilated and collapsed back in the chair.

“Deep breaths, Henry.”

“I don't want to die.” He tilted his head to the side, looking up at her with a smile highlighted in blood. “I miss Elizabeth.”

“Just a dream, Henry,” she said.

“Justine is helping me remember.”

“You said you didn't want to.”

“Would it change anything?”

“You tell me.”

He looked at her and then shook his head. “I remember dying.”

“That was a dream.”

“I guess I don't want to remember, but I'm afraid that someday I'm going to.”

“That's a healthy step,” she said.

He brushed his hair back off his face. A trail of tears ran down his cheeks, mixing with the blood.

“What if I don't like me?” he asked.

“What if you do?”

“That's not an answer.”

“Did you expect one?”

“What happens next?” he asked as the alarm beeped.

“We find out where the path leads.”

nineteen

The salt of the Atlantic lingered on the hot early morning breeze when Henry opened the door. As he walked up the street, he looked over his shoulder toward Justine's house and slowed his pace when her door opened. He stopped completely when she appeared.

In a white sundress with a yellow belt, Justine flowed down the street, moving from one patch of shade to another. Her hair caught the wind, swirling around her like a cloak, hiding everything but her smile. When she stopped in front of him, she brought the shade with her.

“You,” he said before turning around to look for the school bus.

“Yes?” she said.

“Morning.”

“You too.” She walked up beside him, facing the oncoming bus. “Did you know that high schools in England are called secondary schools? Didn't help much, though, to be honest.”

“Help?” he said as they found their seat and sat down.

“Well,” she said, twisting around to face him, her leg caught up beneath her. “He doesn't have a British accent, right?”

“Who?”

“Your father. I was bored. You were asleep, remember?”

He shook his head, then smiled. “Start over again.”

“Your dad, not British, not in secondary school in England. I checked a few Oxford-related school listings, didn't find many William Franks in their class annuals, very helpful, no pictures though. But, since the years didn't really work, I gave up. With me now?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think.”

“It's like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“I know.”

“No, it's worse,” Justine said. “It's like looking for one particular needle named William among all the needles in all the haystacks. Have you figured out what you're going to do if we find out where he went to school?”

Henry shook his head, a half-frown on his face.

“You still could ask him.”

“He's never even home anymore. No one to ask.”

“Where is he?” she asked.

“I don't know. Work?” He shrugged. “I don't think he sleeps much.”

“You all right?”

He looked at her. A loose curl caught the wind from the open windows, warm honey eyes welcoming him along with her smile. “I think so.”

“Ever look for those pictures again?”

“Everywhere but in his bedroom.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“It's always locked, even when he's not home. So I don't even bother anymore.”

“Locked?”

Henry shrugged.

The metallic shriek of the brakes as they turned into the high school carried through the bus. With the motion, Justine slid against his shoulder.

“Any plans this weekend?” he asked.

She looked up at him, her hair falling between them. “Any time in particular? Like, say, Friday night?”

“Friday night would be good,” he said with a smile.

“As long as the hurricane turns north, no plans at all.”

“Didn't they tell us in school that they always turn?”

“Pretty much. It's the elbow effect,” she said, bending her arm to show him. “Hurricanes tend to prefer Florida or South Carolina. Georgia's protected.”

“Would you want to see a movie or something?”

“Like a date?” She smiled, running her fingers through her hair to tie it up in a ponytail.

“Like a date.”

“Yes,” she said. “Although of course it'll have to be approved by my parents. But for the record, my answer is yes.”

They were almost inside the school, walking next to each other, when she reached for his hand.