The Bone Artists (7 page)

Freedom!

I
t was the first text from Micah in months. Understandable, given that he had been locked up in juvenile detention for the whole of the summer. Oliver stared at his phone, numb, tapping his foot under the table. The lunch rush had come and gone at the sandwich shop, the din of voices, laughter, and chewing rising and then falling all while Oliver waited on his dad. He hadn't expected the text from Micah, but then none of his friend's time in juvie made much sense to him.

There'd been no trial. Micah had pled guilty and gone away, but Oliver could swear he ought to be serving a longer sentence. First offense. Good conduct. He could imagine the answers Micah would give before even asking the questions.

Staying with Grams in Shreveport. Catch up soon?

Oliver didn't respond. He didn't know how. Whatever fond memories existed of Micah's grandmother and her insanely delicious gumbo were now tainted. Sabrina was in therapy twice weekly, and Oliver had begun to wonder if maybe he should be going with her.

He flicked Micah's message away, checking instead for word from his father. His knee bounced faster as he scanned the deli,
the counter, the chairs, the back entrance, and then the sidewalk outside. An hour late was nothing for his dad, but he had only texted once to mention the delay.

“I get it,” Oliver muttered, fussing with his hair and running his tongue nervously over the scar on his lip. “Punishment. Real mature, dad.”

His father wasn't at all fond of the idea of Oliver leaving for UT Austin, and that was just one more tally in the SUCK column for the summer. As soon as Oliver had broken the news, his dad had grown distant, cutting back Oliver's hours at the store more and more, either to prepare for the incoming separation or to make things harder on Ollie. Oliver had gotten the hint, picking up a few jobs on the side fixing friends' cars, clinging desperately and guiltily to the cash he had made from helping Briony.

Sometimes the urge to pick up the phone and text her, asking for work, broke his will to never, ever walk the seedy path again. But each time he almost crumbled, he remembered that text after the car wreck.

Briony was involved somehow. How else would she have known so soon? Micah might have been drunk and stupid, but Oliver absolutely believed that someone else was involved.

The waitress took another slow pass by his table, rolling her eyes when Oliver said he was still fine with ice water. He had long ago finished the brownie he'd bought to nibble on while he waited for his dad. But it was growing obvious that his father was a no-show. One last lunch together in August before school started, was that so much to ask?

It was. It definitely was when you were leaving the family
business—and New Orleans—behind.

His phone jumped in his hands, and Oliver clasped it harder, fumbling before bringing it to his ear, his dad's smiling face appearing on the display as the ring chimed.

“You standing me up?” Oliver laughed, trying to lighten the very real accusation. “Not cool, man.”

Static spiked on the other end and Oliver jerked his head away. The crackling died down, an incoherent voice rumbling through the static.

“Your reception blows. Are you in the car or going under a bridge or something?”

“. . .”

“Dad? Hello? Call me back in a sec, see if that helps—”

“. . . the bridge . . .”

His voice was just a scrape, just a whisper. Oliver could hear the pain in it. “Dad? Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I saw them. . . .” A wheezing breath. “I saw them follow me.”

The line went dead after a few seconds of breathing and then silence. Oliver shoved the table away from him and ignored the looks he got, dashing for the door, trying his dad's number again. No answer. He tried again, swearing, tumbling out of the shop and into the thick, wet humidity of August. Clouds sat low and dark over the city, clustered, the utter stillness of the air foretelling the rain to come.

A siren began in the distance, somewhere to Oliver's left as he tried his dad's line again. This time someone picked up and then immediately ended the call. The siren screamed louder as it neared, cars gradually slowing and parting as one, then two, then three police cruisers sped by. Oliver sprinted to his car,
palms slick with icy sweat as he struggled to back out and navigate the street choked with idling cars.

He leaned on the horn, setting his jaw, heedless of the windows rolling down so drivers could scream at him as he weaved recklessly ahead. The bridge. If his dad was returning from an antiques delivery out of the city then Oliver could bet which route he would take on the return trip. The speeding police cars carved a path through traffic, and Oliver followed as closely as he could, flying through stilled four-way stops and traffic lights. There was nothing ahead of him but his father, somewhere, murmuring with that soft, pained voice.

Their last lunch before Oliver went off to school, one cordial afternoon between father and son, was that too much to ask of the universe?

He lost track of the minutes, driving with one hand and dialing his father repeatedly with the other, leaning hard toward the steering wheel as the threatening clouds above opened up, rain driving at the windshield. Buildings and neighborhood blocks gave way to nothingness; the unobscured, open view of the Causeway unfolded under the black clouds. He was close.

The bridge. I saw them follow me.

O
liver drove as far as he could, stopped within half a mile of turning onto the Causeway. A blockade went up as he watched, disobeying the police officer who stood in the downpour, directing with his hands for cars to turn around. Another set of police cars began the process of shutting down the traffic trying to flow toward the Causeway, preventing anyone from even approaching that lane of the bridge.

His breath had caught long before he turned off the ignition. Beyond the blockade he could make out the remains of a shitty old white pickup truck. It had been pancaked into the side of the Causeway, one tire teetering precariously over the edge, a gentle nudge from dropping into the lake.

Oliver parked wherever, leaving the door to his car open as he drifted out of it, wiping the rain from his eyes only as a formality, only because he needed to see. Flares cracked to life on the road, neon red fires kindling on the pavement, doing nothing to cut through the raincloud darkness. The officer directing traffic didn't see him as he approached the yellow tape. Oliver ducked under, sneakers colliding with debris and crystalline chunks of glass that sparkled, reflecting the red flare light.

His mind tricked him into thinking it was a different white pickup truck. Of course it was. Nothing was for sure until it
was for sure. Nothing could convince him it was his dad's truck until there was absolute proof. This was a coincidence until it was a tragedy. But he still couldn't breathe. His pulse knew what his mind refused to accept.

“Whoa, hey kid, you have to get back in your vehicle and turn around.” An officer intercepted him, a tall, thin woman with cowlike, sympathetic eyes and yellow hair. She ducked and took a closer look at him. “Hey? Sir? Can you hear me? Did you hear what I said?”

“My dad,” Oliver murmured, staring past her. “That's . . . that's my dad's truck.”

“What? Are you sure about that?” She glanced around, at the truck and then at the ambulance and fire truck parked horizontally across the lane. “I need to see some ID, kid.”

Oliver pulled his wallet out of his jeans and handed her the whole thing. He handed her his keys. He didn't trust his hands to hold anything anyway. Her grip on him loosened and Oliver continued forward, as if he had no control over his own momentum, as if the twisted-up truck had caught him in a tractor beam. Something caught on his shoe and stuck, gluey. Oliver wiggled his leg but it wouldn't come off. He stopped, watching as three drenched firemen cut away and wrenched off the truck's folded-up door.

What was it they called that thing? The Jaws of Life?

A pale, limp hand slid into view, curled up on what was left of the passenger's side seat. The flares crackled. The sirens all around him flickered and flickered, dying that single hand blue and then red. The officer behind him barked into her radio, asking for help, more help, more assistance, for Christ's
sake the guy's kid had shown up, could she get some damn help already?

Someone grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back. That same officer.

“It's my dad,” Oliver said, tugging against her. “It's my dad!” He panicked, but she was strong, holding him, and soon two more officers jogged over to help her, restraining him as the EMTs hurried in after the firemen, a stretcher folded out and waiting behind them.

He didn't know what he was screaming anymore, just that he was screaming. He didn't know what he was seeing, only that his father was being taken away in pieces.

They carried him away. Forced him away. Wet through and freezing, Oliver couldn't feel any of it. His throat felt raw, and when they sat him down in the back of an open ambulance, dry, brown blanket draped over his shoulders, he couldn't even grasp the edges of the fabric with his trembling fingers.

“How did you know to come here?” an officer was asking, gently. They were all perfectly nice to him now that he had stopped shrieking.

Oliver didn't answer. What did it matter? He couldn't save his dad, and the reasons why seemed pointless to consider. He shifted, his sneaker scraping the pavement. That damn gluey bullshit was still stuck to his foot. Suddenly it was the only thing worthy of his attention. How dare it. How dare it annoy him right then? How dare anyone touch him or look at him or ask him anything at all?

He bent down and blindly groped at the bottom of his shoe, tearing away the plasticky strip with a ferocious tear of his fist.
He almost tossed it away, but the dark green color snagged on a memory. Unrolling the wad of torn plastic, Oliver stared down at the sticker. A bumper sticker.

He couldn't breathe again, and the cold and the rain and the officer touching his shoulder felt a million miles away.

PROUD PARENT OF AN HONOR ROLL STUDENT

His phone buzzed in his pocket, the one item he hadn't handed over to the police for safekeeping. The officer sighed and wandered away, giving up on Oliver and his dazed silence. When she was gone, Oliver retrieved his phone, realizing he should call Sabrina, call Micah, call anyone at all who could make sense of this for him.

He had deleted her number, but he recognized the odd area code. Briony.

Come back to work for us, Oliver. Your debt is not repaid.

S
abrina had fallen asleep hours ago. For her sake, Oliver let her think he had done the same. Small comforts, she'd said. That was what had helped her after Diane died. A warm mug of tea. A hot shower. A familiar bed. Home. Friends. He had let her do all those things for her, culminating in the two of them cuddled up watching
The Princess Bride
on repeat until they both fell asleep.

Well,
she
fell asleep. Oliver stared at the muted film, the actors mouthing lines he knew by heart.

You killed my father. Prepare to die.

At least the tears had stopped. Oliver hadn't realized a person could just keep crying and crying with no sound or anything else coming out, just relentless tears that triggered at the smallest, stupidest thing. They almost triggered again when he picked his half-dead phone up and shrugged out of the blanket covering him and Sabrina. She snored lightly while he dialed Micah again. His entire call log for the past three hours was filled with that one number.

Where the hell was that kid? Why now, of all times, did he decide to disappear? Micah had ditched out on the Bone Artists and Briony just as much as Oliver had, and now Oliver believed with every sinew in his body that his friend had been run off the
road intentionally, just like his dad.

He almost yelped in shock when the other end livened up and Micah's face greeted him groggily.

“Micah? Jesus Christ, dude, I've been trying to get in touch with you all night!”

“What? What is . . . Is everything all right?” He sounded more awake at least.

“It's my dad.” That was it. That was all he could manage. The tears started again and Oliver smothered them in the neck of his tee, trying not to wake Sabrina. “His truck. The Causeway. It's just like . . . just like you said it happened to you.”

Micah breathed heavily on the other end. “Can we meet somewhere to talk about this, man?”

“What?
No
. No, it's . . . I can't think about driving anywhere. I'm with Sabrina.” He squeezed his eyes shut, pulling off the blankets, suddenly much too warm. Pinpricks crawled over his forearms. “I got a message from Briony,” he hissed. “More than one. One after your accident and one tonight. It's not a coincidence, Micah. They're watching me. They're watching
us
.”

His friend gave a cold bark of laughter. “That's insane, Ollie. That's . . . That all ended months ago.”

“Maybe for you,” Oliver muttered. “She's not texting you? She's not threatening you?”

“I don't know what to tell you, man.”

“That's
bullshit
.” He winced, lowering his voice again. “That's not an answer. My dad is dead. Diane is dead. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Me? Nothing is wrong with me. Shit. I'm waking up Grams with this. I'll be in touch tomorrow.”

“Micah, wait—”

“I said I'll be in touch.”

Oliver stayed with the phone stuck to his ear for a moment, stunned. He had never heard that voice come out of his friend. Vicious. Detached. It cut. Oliver lowered the phone, dragging his eyes from Sabrina's huddled silhouette to the open and half-packed duffel bags in the corner. In the morning he would unpack them. He couldn't leave now, and maybe he couldn't leave ever.