Unspeakable (4 page)

Tonight he didn't want to argue with her. He reached for the glass of water on his nightstand, plucked the pill from her hand and swallowed it. A lot of those side-effects stories were pretty far-fetched anyway.

“You can sleep in tomorrow,” his mother said, twisting the cap back on the bottle. She reached over and messed his already messy hair. “Tell you what, Collie, tomorrow afternoon, we can finally go check out the Experience Music Project—just you and me. What do you say?”

Collin wanted to say he was too old to hang out with his mother all afternoon. Why not just wear a T-shirt that said, I'
M A PATHETIC LOSER
? Besides, she and Chance would probably sleep until three in the afternoon tomorrow. There was no way in hell they'd get to the EMP in time to see anything. Though he knew it would never happen, Collin worked up a smile and nodded, “Sounds good, Mom.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Sleep tight.” Then she got to her feet and retreated toward the hallway. The last thing Collin saw before she closed the door was her silhouette, and she was rubbing her nose again.

Then the room was swallowed up in darkness.

Collin told himself it was nice she'd checked in on him. The gesture reminded him that she genuinely cared about him—in her own screwed-up way. As much as he imagined a better life with his grandparents on the Kitsap Peninsula, he couldn't leave her. Who else would take care of her, clean up after her, and protect her from herself?

Collin's father had tried to take care of her long ago. They'd met at a ski resort, where he'd been an instructor. They'd gotten married two days later. When Collin was four months old, his dad had left in the middle of the night—in his jeep and with all of his ski equipment.

Collin had been three years old when his father came back—to ask for an annulment so he could remarry. His mom didn't believe Collin when he claimed to have a vague memory of his father from that day—handsome and tan with wavy brown hair. He'd worn a blue jean jacket. Collin remembered his dad picking him up and holding him over his head. He remembered the jeep, parked in front of their town house.

Aaron Cox and his fiancée had died three months later when that same jeep spun out of control and hit a truck on Highway 145 outside Telluride, Colorado. Collin's mother hadn't gone to the funeral. She'd been in her first stint in a drug rehab facility at the time, and little Collin had been staying with his grandparents at their beachfront home in Poulsbo.

He wished he were there now. He had his own bedroom—with a TV and a connecting bathroom. From his window, he looked out at Liberty Bay. It was always so quiet there.

He now longed for that same quiet—just waves lapping against the shore outside. But Chance and his lowlife friends were laughing and carrying on downstairs. Even with the Ambien in his system, Collin still couldn't fall asleep. He tore off his bedsheets and sat up.

The drug must have worked from the ground up, because his legs felt wobbly as he climbed out of bed. Collin had on his South Park T-shirt and plaid boxer shorts. He grabbed his pillow, which smelled of Clearasil, and hugged it to his chest. Lumbering into the closet, he pulled the string for the overhead light and shut the door behind him. Already, the noise downstairs became muffled. He staggered past the row of clothes on hangers. They concealed a narrow door—about four feet tall. Opening it, he reached inside and switched on the light. He lost his footing for a second. Empty hangers rattled and clinked as he stumbled back into them. He braced himself against the wall, and then pulled the string to turn off the closet light.

Collin ducked into the storage space, which was surprisingly cool on this muggy summer night. He'd fixed it up with a cheap bathroom rug, a bookcase full of books, his sleeping bag, and a battery-operated lantern. He kept the area clean. It had a small window, which he opened a crack. He tossed his pillow on top of the sleeping bag. Then he switched on the lantern and weaved back toward the tiny door to close it and turn off the light.

This secret room reminded him of that little shack by Shilshole Bay. When he needed to be alone and couldn't get away from home, this crawlspace was the next best thing. Except for some muted laughter, he couldn't hear them anymore. And he couldn't keep his eyes open.

Collin crawled inside the sleeping bag and tucked the pillow under his head. He felt a cool, gentle breeze coming through the open window.

The next thing he knew, he and his mother were scurrying around under the shadow of the Space Needle, looking for an entrance into the Experience Music Project. Every door they tried was locked. He kept thinking they didn't have much time before the place closed. He was so angry at her, because she'd told Chance where they were going. Collin desperately wanted to get inside the building before Chance caught up with them. At last, he found a door that opened, and he tried to pull his mother inside.

“God, no, wait!”
she screamed.

He heard Chance cursing.

Suddenly, he was awake. He knew he wasn't at the Experience Music Project. He'd sweated inside the warm sleeping bag. He remembered the weird thing about Ambien was that it gave him vivid, realistic dreams. But he could have sworn that had actually been the sound of his mother's voice just a moment ago. And the spew of loud obscenities from Chance seemed to come from beneath the attic's floorboards.

Collin kept still and listened. He heard some indistinct conversation. It sounded like other people talking. He wondered what time it was. Hadn't the party broken up yet?

He started drifting off again. He thought of Dastardly Dave and the Shilshole Kid—except they weren't cartoon cowboys. They were real, and he was the Shilshole Kid. He and Dastardly Dave were on foot, being chased through the woods by an evil sheriff and his posse. He kept thinking that once he and Dave made it to that little shack, they'd be safe. No one would find them there.

He heard a loud snap—like someone had broken off a tree branch.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, my baby!”
his mother screamed.
“Don't hurt him! Collin, get out of here! Oh, no . . .”

He couldn't tell where his mother's voice had come from. Maybe she was waiting for them in the shed. He did what his mom told him to, and ran even faster. He gasped for air, and felt his lungs burning. Through the tree branches, he spotted the little shack up ahead. But he'd lost track of Dave.

Somewhere nearby, he heard a muted whimpering. It sounded like an animal was trapped and wounded here in the woods. All Collin could think was this ailing creature would give away his position. The wheezing sound went on and on.

“Shut up!” Collin finally yelled.

Or had he? He told himself again that it was just the pill he'd taken. None of this was real. He was dreaming.

“Son of a bitch!”
someone grunted. It was a stranger's voice.
“Can you believe it? The fucker's still alive. He's still breathing. Finish him off. . . .”

The Shilshole Kid reached the cabin at last. He burst inside and shut the door behind him. He'd wait for Dave's special knock. But as he turned around, he realized he wasn't in the shack in the woods. He was in a dark attic, and about ten people were huddled together, hiding in there. He didn't recognize any of them, except the somewhat frumpy-looking blonde in one corner of the room. It was Shelley Winters. “Shhhh, Collie,” she whispered. “You have to be quiet. The Nazis are outside. We can't let them find us. Stay still, baby. . . .”

“Of course,” he whispered.

There was the rumble of footsteps up the stairs. It sounded like at least two people.

“No witnesses!”
someone said.
“Where's the kid? She's got a kid. . . .”

Collin heard a door creak open.
“Shit, somebody was in here,”
one of them said.
“The fan's still on.”

His heart was racing. Collin didn't dare move a muscle—or breathe. He heard another door yawn open. Gazing over toward the little trapdoor, he couldn't see it at first—and then an outline of light from the other side suddenly appeared at the hinges. Hangers rattled.

All at once a loud shot went off. Collin flinched.

There was a scuttle of footsteps, and the hangers clanked again.

It sounded like the Nazis were leaving. Collin could hear them going down the stairs. They were arguing about something, but he couldn't make out what they said. Were they talking in German? He stared at the line of the light around that little door. He was still too afraid to make a move. The voices started to fade.

“We have to remain quiet,” Mr. Frank whispered. “No one move a muscle.”

Collin didn't know how long he lay there motionless. It didn't sound like anyone had left yet. There was still a lot of movement in the house—voices whispering, doors opening and shutting. He glanced over at Anne Frank, who sat quietly and stroked a cat in her lap. The young, dark-haired girl gave him a sweet, reassuring smile.

At last, he thought he heard some car doors slamming. Then tires screeched.

“Just lie still,” Mr. Frank whispered. “It might not be over yet.”

Huddled in the sleeping bag, Collin tried not to move. He wondered if those men were really gone.

“You just need a little help falling asleep,” he heard his mother say. “I'll try to hustle them out of here soon.”

He wanted to thank her. But he was too tired to even talk. It was blessedly quiet now, and he slept.

When he opened his eyes again, it was morning.

Collin sat up in the sleeping bag. The early morning light through the small window made his cozy getaway look like the ugly attic space it was. He always tried to keep it clean, but this morning, he could see the splintery, wooden floorboards, and all the dust and cobwebs. He made out—just barely—the faint outline of light around the narrow little door to his closet.

He remembered almost stumbling last night when he'd reached for the closet's pull-string light. But he'd turned it off. Why was the light on now?

The house seemed too quiet. He thought about Chance's party last night. It had sounded as if it had gotten pretty crazy. A fight had broken out or something. Collin figured his mom and Mr. Personality were asleep right now. They probably wouldn't be waking up for hours yet.

He had no idea what time it was. Crawling out of his sleeping bag, he grabbed his pillow and staggered toward the small door. He still wasn't sure why the closet light was on. He opened the door and ducked through it. Collin pulled the string and turned off the closet light. Then he moved on to his bedroom, where the tower fan was blowing cool air toward his bed. He remembered that voice in his Nazi dream:
“Shit, somebody was in here. The fan's still on.”

He set the pillow on his bed and squinted at the clock on the nightstand: 8:02
AM
. He stepped into a pair of jeans. Gazing down at the beige rug on his bedroom floor, he noticed some faint, crimson marks that hadn't been there before. They looked like partial shoe prints—in faded, dried blood.

With uncertainty, Collin continued into the hallway. He remembered his weird, vivid, Ambien-fueled nightmare from last night. All that fighting, screaming, the chaos and the gunshot, it was just a dream.

But why was there blood on his bedroom rug?

He never went into his mother's room, certainly not when he knew Chance was in there with her. But he turned down the hall and saw the door was slightly ajar. Collin remembered his mother's screaming and wondered if Chance had beaten her up last night. Chance hadn't knocked her around yet, but Collin had always figured he was capable of it.

The bedroom door creaked as he pushed it open farther. The bed was unmade and empty. Some dresser drawers had been left open. The closet door was open, too, and the light was on. Boxes and suitcases had been yanked down from the shelf and clothes dumped on the floor. Someone had been searching for something—maybe drugs.

Collin noticed the same faded crimson smudges on his mother's pale blue carpet. He told himself it could be reddish mud or just about anything. Most of Chance's friends were slobs—as well as potential thieves. They could have tracked in something from outside.

Collin turned and headed back down the hallway. Stopping by the bathroom, he glanced beyond the half-open door. “My God,” he muttered.

The linen closet door was open, too—and so was the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink.

He started toward the stairs. “Mom?” he called with a tremor in his voice. “Mom, are you home? It looks like we got robbed. . . .”

At the top of the stairs, he hesitated. Maybe the intruders were still inside the house. He stood there for a moment, feeling sick to his stomach. He backed up, and then retreated into his room. Propping open his window was a solid piece of wood—almost the length of a baseball bat. Collin grabbed it and headed toward the hallway again. Behind him, the window squeaked as it slid down toward the sill.

“Mom?” he called once more. With the piece of wood clenched in his fist, he started down the stairs. His legs felt wobbly again—as if the Ambien was still in his system. He nervously clung to the banister with his other hand.

“Mom? Mom, are you—” He didn't finish. The words caught in his throat.

Halfway down the stairs, Collin saw the chaotic pattern of dark red footprints on the front hall's hardwood floor. He could see the living room from here, too. The shades were drawn, and the lights were still on. He saw the bodies—both of them, hog-tied with their hands behind their backs. Beneath them, the blood soaking the tan shag rug almost looked brown. His mother was lying on her side, turned away from him. Strands of her blond hair were clumped together with blood. Collin couldn't see her face.