Henry Franks (7 page)

“There was an accident.”

“Henry,” she said, walking across the office to sit on the couch next to him. “It's Dr. Saville. Can you breathe for me?”

He took one long shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

“Henry?”

“I had another dream.”

His hand flopped to the couch between them, as though it wasn't even attached to an arm. The scar wrapped around the wrist glistened with sweat. The back of the hand had a dusting of fine pale hairs that almost reached the scar. Above the scar, up his forearm, dark hair stuck to the skin in the heat.

“Anyone you know?” she asked.

“Elizabeth.”

“No one else?”

“Strangers,” he said.

“Dead?”

He nodded. A wall of bangs fell into his eyes and he left them there.

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

“You didn't recognize them at all?” she asked.

“No.”

“Did Elizabeth?”

“She told me she had a secret,” he said.

“A secret?”

“They're always dead.”

“Elizabeth's secrets?”

“She didn't do it,” he said.

“Did she tell you that?” she asked.

“Doesn't have to. I know.”

“Why?”

“She didn't know them.”

“Henry?”

“Just a dream, right?” He raised his head, looking at her.

“Your nose is bleeding.” Dr. Saville crossed the room to get a tissue, but when she turned back around Henry was standing right behind her. She stumbled against the foot of her chair.

He reached out his blond-haired hand to steady her, leaving a bloody print on her sleeve. Trails of blood had streaked around his mouth and down his chin; drops splattered on his shirt.

“It's the meds. They make my nose bleed.” He smiled at her, his white teeth sharp in a sea of red. “You okay?”

Dr. Saville pulled her arm out of his grasp. “Here,” she handed him the box of tissues. “For your nose.”

He sat down, head back, and counted his breaths. “Just a dream,” he said, talking to the ceiling.

“Does she have any other secrets, Henry?”

He shrugged and then looked up at her. “I think more people are going to die.”

Blood had stained his teeth, but his nose had stopped bleeding. Dried red flakes remained on his lips and chin when he smiled.

“Henry?”

“There was an accident,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “I should have died.” He closed his eyes and the silence stretched out as he took one deep breath after another.

The alarm shattered the quiet. Henry stood up, next to Dr. Saville as she dropped the pad down on the desk. It landed next to a folded-over copy of the
Brunswick News
. He could only see half of the full-color photograph of police cars beneath a banner headline about the two bodies found the day before. The top sheet of paper on the pad, beneath Henry's name and the date, was blank except for the one drop of blood that had fallen on it.

twelve

Justine was in his seat when he climbed up the steps onto the bus. As Henry walked down the plastic runner, her mouth fell open and, as he sat down next to her, she pushed it closed with her index finger.

“You own a
white
shirt?” She smiled before her mouth fell open again in mock surprise. “Really? White? I'm shocked.”

“Does it ruin my look?”

“You have a look?” She laughed. “I guess shorts would have been too much to ask for?”

“I—” He looked at her. Her bare legs were tan and a stark contrast to his dark jeans. A green tank top hid her bra strap but little else, and he swallowed before looking away. “I never wear shorts.”

“What do you swim in?”

“I don't know how to swim.”

“Is that another one of those things you don't remember? Maybe you used to swim? How would you know?”

“My father made a scrapbook,” he said. “With a bunch of pictures of me from before the accident.” Henry ran his fingers through his hair, but it fell back down in front of his eyes anyway.

“Any with you in shorts?”

He shrugged. “I don't know, never looked.”

“Can I see?”

“Me in shorts?”

“Well, now that you mention it,” she said before shaking her head. “No, the scrapbook.”

“Why?”

Justine looked up, half-turning to face him. Her fingers, with their pale pink nail polish, drummed against the seat between them. She smiled. “To help?”

He looked at her, studying the warmth of her smile, the depth of her eyes as she faced him. He took a deep breath and smiled back. “I found some pictures in the basement the other day.”

“Of you?”

“No. I don't know. They looked like me,” he said. “But these were old, black-and-white.”

“Did they remind you of anything?”

“I think maybe they're of my dad.”

“So?” she asked.

“When I went back to look at them, they were gone.”

“Gone?”

“The basement was cleaned up and the pictures were missing.”

“Maybe your dad has them,” Justine said. “Have you asked him?”

“I tried, but I don't see him very often, really.” Henry smiled. “I live the perfect teenage life, no parents.” The smile faded. “Kinda sucks.”

She rested her fingers on his arm, right above the scar, as the bus pulled into the high school. The movement slid her strap down her shoulder.

“You match again,” Henry said. Even through her tan, she blushed.

They walked off the bus and into school together until her friends called her away. Still, she lingered next to him a moment longer before leaving. His scar, which she'd almost touched, didn't itch at all.

After eating lunch, Henry left the cafeteria and headed for the library, hoping to catch Justine before she finished studying. As he passed the lab he almost ran into the new science teacher, but someone reached out for him, grabbing his arm and pulling him out of the way.

“Trying to kill another teacher, Scarface?” Bobby said.

“What?” Henry tried to shrug out of Bobby's grip, but the much-larger football player held him easily.

“You live on the island, don't you?” Bobby asked. “Lots of dead bodies piling up out there. I think I might need to start gathering some pitchforks and villagers.”

Henry squirmed, but Bobby just pushed him harder into the lockers. The hall was empty now that the teacher had gone in to the lab. “Just let me go.”

“Oh, and about Justine? She's cute,” Bobby said. “Out of your league, though, sorry about that.” He smiled and pushed Henry away, sending him to the floor.

Henry picked himself up but Bobby was already walking into the library. He looked through the library window long enough to see Justine turn away from Bobby, but he was too far away to hear what she said.

“Out of your league too,” Henry said with a smile, running his fingers over the scar on his wrist.

Officials at Town Hall Meeting
Warn of Suspected Serial Killings

Brunswick, GA—August 21, 2009:
Mayor Jim Monroe appeared with Carmella Rawls of the Brunswick Police Department and Major Daniel Johnson of FLETC at a press conference at Glynn Academy in Brunswick on Thursday evening to discuss the investigation into what is being called a suspicious series of murders in Glynn County. While few details were given, some guidelines were provided by the Mayor to increase public safety. The main recommendation was to utilize the Buddy System by traveling in pairs when possible.

“This is not a time for panic or overreaction,” Mayor Monroe said. “This is a time for the community to come together and resolve to rededicate ourselves to preserving the safe, family-friendly environment that makes Brunswick and the Golden Isles such a wonderful place to live and visit.”

“I'm confident in the resiliency of the people of Glynn County and in the resources which have been allocated to this situation,” Mayor Monroe stated at the end of the press conference. “I urge everyone to support our community and our local businesses by continuing to enjoy the beautiful summer we have been having.”

thirteen

“Any plans for the weekend?” Justine asked as they walked off the bus.

“Air-conditioning. You?”

“Not going to the football game tonight?”

Henry slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shook his head. “Wasn't planning on it. Don't really know what I'm going to do.”

“Well,” she said, “I was thinking today.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes.” Her ponytail bobbed with her smile. “It's a good thing. I'd like to help.”

“Help?” Henry asked.

“The pictures, in your basement.”

“What about them?”

“Want help finding them?”

The front door stuck when he tried to open it and it took a push or two to work the key. A welcome rush of cold air blew out and Henry fumbled for the light switch.

“Now I know where you get your style,” Justine said, looking around the entranceway.

“My style?”

“All dark and moody. You dress like your house.”

“It was like this when we moved in, I think. Blame the people who lived here before.” Henry matched her laugh. “Though it is a little depressing in here.”

“No wonder you're seeing a shrink,” she said, pushing against his forearm as they walked. When he didn't respond, she said, “That was a joke, you know?”

In the kitchen, with a couple more windows and a little more light, he looked at her. “I know.”

“Where are we going?”

“Through here.” He led the way into the laundry room. “Wasn't a particularly funny one, though.”

“What?”

“Your joke,” he said, hair once more falling into his face. He brushed it aside and then pulled out the rolling cart. “Perhaps ‘the interior designer was suffering from Prozac withdrawal' would have been funnier.”

Justine shook her head, ponytail flying behind her. “Mine was better than that.”

“I'll think of something.”

“Probably not.”

Henry opened the door and picked up the flashlight he'd left on the cart, complete with fresh batteries. “The pull cord's down here. Watch your step.”

“I have a basement too, you know,” she said, closing the door behind them and walking past him down the stairs.

The hanging bulb cast a weak light over the piles of boxes.

“Back here.” Henry led the way through the basement. “This box, it had pictures in it.” He flipped the flaps open and shone the flashlight into the empty corners. “The next day they were gone. I searched everywhere but couldn't find them. Everything was cleaned up; even the spider webs had been swept away.”

“‘So, Justine, what did you do today?'” she said. “‘Well, Mom, I went into the creepy house next door and all the spiders were gone. It was just terrible.'”

“You only think you're funny.”

“Nope, I have a certificate and everything. It's official; I'm funny.” She stood there looking up at him. “I'm sorry. I can stop if you'd like.”

“Really?”

“Well,” she said, a smile teasing the edges of her lips, “I could try to stop. For you.”

He turned and worked his way to the opposite end of the room, picking a box at random to open. “I think you're funny,” he said, not looking at her.

She popped her head up from the other side of the room. “I heard that!”

“Not deaf, but definitely funny.”

“I'm sorry, did you say something?” She opened a box, closed it, opened the next, working her way toward him. “Someone sick?”

“Why?”

She pulled out an unopened box of face masks. “There are lots of medical supplies in here.”

“My dad's a doctor,” he said.

“See, that's why you're seeing a shrink.”

“Still not funny.”

“What kind of doctor?” She closed the box and moved on to the next one.

“Forensics.”

“Like, with dead people?”

“I guess so.”

“This really is the creepy house. Does your shrink have an opening for me?”

They worked their way from one end of the basement to the other, box to box, until they met in the middle.

“Why would he hide them?” she asked.

Henry rubbed his eyes. Sweat beaded his skin and his palms were moist; his scars itched in the heat. He closed the last box with a sigh.

“I don't know.”

“Maybe he was just cleaning?” She walked back to the circuit box. “It obviously needed it.”

“Then where did he put them?”

“Threw them away? Maybe they weren't his.” She opened the original box, still empty, and turned it upside down, shaking it.

“I remember them,” Henry said, his voice quiet as he sat down on the stairs at the other end of the basement.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“I'm sorry,” Justine said as she sat down next to him.

“Not your fault,” he said. “Thank you for helping.”

“Wasn't much help.”

A door slammed upstairs, the sound loud in the close space. She jumped, just a little, scooting closer to Henry, her hand resting on his arm.

Footfalls were loud against the wood flooring as someone walked around the house. Henry stood up, pulling Justine with him. He reached up to pull the light cord, plunging them into darkness
.

At the top of the stairs, the door stayed closed. Her hand was moist in his, her skin soft and warm.

“Henry?” she whispered, squeezing his fingers.

“Probably my dad.”

“Why are we hiding?” she asked.

The footsteps faded away before another door slammed and then there was silence, save for the constant hum of the air-conditioning.

“I don't know,” he said, and started to reach for the light cord.

“Shh,” she said, tugging on his hand.

“What?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

In the darkness, she gripped tighter on to his hand. “That.”

“I don't hear anything.”

“Something's beeping,” she said.

Henry turned the light back on but didn't let go of her hand. He blinked in the sudden brightness.

“There it was again.”

They stood in silence, still holding hands.

“That?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “it hasn't been long enough. It's every thirty seconds.”

“You've been counting?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Did you hear it that time?”

“No, you were talking.”

Justine reached her free hand up and covered Henry's mouth with her palm. He turned to face her and slid the flashlight into his pocket, bringing his own hand up to cover her mouth. She smiled beneath his fingers as the beep sounded again.

His eyes widened and she took her hand down. “Heard it that time, didn't you?”

Henry nodded and started walking away from the circuit box, into the far corner beneath the staircase. Thirty seconds later, they waited for another beep. After, they took a few more steps on tiptoe, trying to see behind boxes. Another beep.

Henry moved a pile of boxes out of the way until he could see underneath the stairs. An old fire alarm hung off the wall, a faint red light blinking as it beeped once again.

“Well,” Justine said, “that was anti-climactic.”

“What were you expecting?” He took the battery out of the alarm and tested it on his tongue.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Seeing how much power is left.”

“With your tongue?”

He held the 9-volt out to her. “Here, just touch the two metal things.”

“No thanks,” she said. “I trust you.”

“It tingles.”

“It's electricity. We're already alive—I'm not eating a battery.” She shook her head. “Though I could go for a donut.”

He pocketed the battery and started picking up the boxes he'd moved.

“Henry?” She was on her hands and knees when he turned to look at her, and all he saw was the way her shorts stretched across the back of very tan, very slim thighs, the shadows playing hide-and-seek with his vision as he watched her sit up. “It's empty.”

She passed a small box over to him, the half-ripped-off label still showing part of an address.

“CME-U,” he read out loud. “I can't make out the rest, it's missing.”

“Does it mean anything to you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You?”

“Of course, it solves everything,” she said. “Do I look like Sherlock Holmes?”

Henry looked her up and down, at the dust stains on her knees, the long tendrils of hair sticking to her neck in the heat, the T-shirt glued to her skin. “I'd have enjoyed the books a lot more,” he said.

Justine grabbed his hand and walked back into the maze of boxes, then let go of him with a laugh in order to straighten out the mess.

On the way up the stairs, she turned the light out and reached for his hand again.

In the kitchen, a bag of fast-food burgers sat on the table next to a pile of junk mail. Down the hall at the master bedroom a ray of light bled through the edges of the door, but his father was nowhere to be seen.

“Dinner?” Justine asked, pointing at the table.

“Burgers again,” he said with a shrug.

“I'm sorry we didn't find anything.”

“I have that box now, not to mention my scrapbook,” Henry said. “And a burger.”

“And ketchup,” she said, picking up one of the packets next to the bag. “I'd still like to see your scrapbook one day.”

“I'm free Sunday,” he said.

She threw the packet of ketchup at him. “You have a date tomorrow?”

He flinched, his hand a second too slow to stop it from bouncing off his forehead. “Something with my dad. No date.”

“Your reflexes kinda suck, you know?”

“I know.”

“Sunday?” she asked.

“Anytime.”

“Sorry about the ketchup, figured you'd catch it,” she said. “Pun intended.”

“Still not funny.”

She smiled. “Puns are an unappreciated art form.”

“For good reason.”

“Seems like an awful lot of food for just the two of you,” Justine said.

“He's always telling me to eat more.”

“My mom's always telling me to eat less.”

“It's not all for us. I think maybe he's feeding the homeless or something.”

“The homeless?”

“The other night he brought home a lot of food. I think he's leaving it outside for someone.”

“Why?”

“After dinner, I found the bag on the back stoop.”

“Maybe he's feeding a stray cat?”

“A stray cat that cleans up after itself? The empty wrappers were inside the bag.”

“Does he do that every night?”

Henry shrugged, then shook his head. “I don't know. Only saw him do it one time.”

“Why didn't you ask him?”

“Honestly?” he asked. “I never see him. Plus, even when he's here, he doesn't actually seem to be here, if that makes sense. The other night, he was talking to someone, but there was no one else in the room.”

“See,” she said, “this is the creepy house.”

He threw the ketchup packet back at her. She caught it mid-flight.

“I can see your backyard from my house,” she said.

“So?”

“So, tonight, maybe I'll keep watch on your stoop, check out the neat-freak cat.”

As they left the kitchen, Justine slipped her hand back into his but let go before they walked outside. A slight breeze had picked up, salty with the scent of the nearby ocean, but not strong enough to dispel the heavy air or the gnats. Somewhere in the distance a car honked, and a neighbor down the street was mowing. Their arms swung back and forth as they walked next door, their fingers brushing against each other on every swing.

Behind his fall of hair, Henry smiled and then looked at Justine. She smiled back. It was like nothing he could remember.