Chapter 20
I tossed all night. The wind gusted through the open fields rimming the farmhouse, spraying debris against the windows. I woke several times, hearing shingles being pulled from the roof and tumbling over the edge. Every small noise from the rattle of the windowpanes to my own creaking bedsprings had me jumping out of sleep.
Around six I gave up, dragged myself out of bed, and padded down the hall for a hot shower. Next I cleaned my room—my closet was looking slim, and sure enough, I filled the hamper with three loads of laundry. I was climbing the stairs with a fresh load when a knock sounded at the front door. I opened it to find Dylan standing on the doorstep.
He wore jeans, a vintage plaid shirt rolled to the elbows, sunglasses, and a Red Sox cap. On the outside, he looked all American. But I knew better.
"Maximum Ride," Dylan said in a patronizing voice. He leaned in and grinned, and I caught the sour tang of alcohol on his breath. "You've been causing me a lot of trouble lately."
"I cause a lot of trouble for a lot of people," I said in a calm voice. "What are you doing here, scumbag."
He peered behind me into the house. "What's it look like I'm doing? I want to talk. Don't I get to come in?"
"My mom's asleep. I don't want to wake her."
"You don't like me, do you, Maxie?" Something inside me snapped. My anger was rising. NO ONE CALLS ME THAT. Only dad could call me that.
"No I do not," I sneered.
"Ouch." Dylan pressed a hand on his chest.
"Dylan, if you know what's good for you-" he interrupted me. Hell no.
He drilled his fist into the house, smacking his knuckles against the siding hard enough to shake loose chipped paint. "I'm not finished!" he slurred in a heated voice. Suddenly he tipped his head back and laughed quietly. He bent over and placed his bleeding hand between his knees and groaned. "Ten dollars says I'm going to regret that later."
Seriously? Dylan took off his sunglasses, and looked at me with what appeared a death glare. I snorted. I gave him my death glare, making him flinch. That's how you do it, buddy.
"I came here because I wanted to tell you Hunter is under a lot of stress at school. Exams, student government, scholarship applications, yadda, yadda, yadda. He's not acting like himself. He needs to get away from it all for a few days. The four of us—Hunter, me, you, Nudge—should go camping for spring break. Leave tomorrow for Powder Horn and come back Tuesday afternoon. It'll give Hunter a chance to decompress." Every word that came out of his mouth sounded eerily and carefully rehearsed.
"No thank you," I hissed.
Dylan leaned his hand on the doorjamb, bending toward me. "Wrong answer." For a fleeting moment, the glassy stupor in his eyes disappeared, something twisted and sinister eclipsing it. I involuntarily stepped back. I was almost positive Dylan had it in him to kill. I was almost positive his ex's death was on his hands.
"Leave, or I'll kick your drunk ass," I said.
Dylan flung the screen door open so hard it smacked back against the house. He grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked me outside. Then he shoved me back against the siding and pinned me there with his body. "You're coming camping whether you want to or not." I cracked my knuckles. Don't you just love kicking someone's ass in the morning. I punched him with all my might in the stomach.
He groaned, and fell back, tripping on the porch steps and falling to the ground. I ran down the steps and jumped on his chest. I punched his face multiple times, before standing up and giving him a few kicks.
"I've been wanting to do this for a while," I said, raising my fist up.
"Max!" gasped mom, from the door.
"Before I get in trouble, this is a guy from school who asked to me to kick his ass," I snarled. Dylan had trouble standing up, but he wiped blood oozing from his nose and spit blood out.
"Leave if you know what's good for you!" I hissed. I took a step forward, making him tremble and back away. I dusted my pants off and whirled around to face mom, who had her hand pressed to her heart.
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"Mom he cheated off my test and said I cheated of him. You know how I deal with guys who do things like that," I said. She smiled at me and wrapped her arms around me.
"Come on. Let me make you breakfast," she said.
"With chocolate chip cookies," I suggested. She laughed.
"Honey, I'll make some before I leave and they'll be all yours," she said. I smiled and nodded. Mom was going to a wedding for a friend from work. Guess what I'm doing? Going to Portland to investigate more on Dylan.
While mom made breakfast, I heard my phone ringing from upstairs. I ran up the stairs and picked it up.
"Hello?" I asked.
"Pack your bags, we're going camping for spring break!" squealed Nudge.
"Dylan's planning something. Something weird. The only reason he wants to go camping is so he can get us alone. We're not going."
"What do you mean we're not going? This is a joke, right? I mean, we finally get to do something exciting over spring break, and you're saying no? You know my mom will never let me go alone. I'll do anything. Seriously. I'll do your homework for a week. Come on, Max. One little word. Say it. It starts with the letter Y…"
"Dylan showed up at my house fifteen minutes ago, drunk. He—he physically threatened me."
She was quiet a moment. "What do you mean by 'physically threatened'?"
"He dragged me out the front door and shoved me against the house."
"But he was drunk, right?"
"Does it matter?" I snapped.
"What'd you do?" she asked. I smirked.
"I kicked his wasted ass." I heard Nudge sigh in relief.
"He was wasted. Maybe—maybe he didn't know what he was doing. Tomorrow he's going to feel horrible."
I opened my mouth, shut it. I couldn't believe Nudge was siding with Dylan. "I have to go," I said bitterly.
"I'll talk to you later."
"Can I be completely honest, Max? I know you're worried about this guy in the ski mask. Don't hate me, but I think the only reason you're trying so hard to pin it on Dylan is because you don't want it to be Fang. You're rationalizing everything, and it's freaking me out."
I was speechless. "Rationalizing? Patch didn't show up at my door this morning and slam me against my house."
"You know what? I shouldn't have brought it up. Let's just drop it, okay?"
"Fine," I said stiffly.
"So…what are you doing today?"
I poked my head out the door, listening for my mom. The sound of a whisk scraping the side of a bowl carried up from the kitchen. She wanted to know my plans? Fine by me. It wasn't my problem if she didn't like them. "I'm driving to Portland as soon as my mom leaves for a wedding at Old Orchard Beach." The wedding started at 4 p.m., and with the reception following, my mom wouldn't get home until 9 p.m. at the earliest. Which gave me enough time to spend the evening in Portland, and beat her home. "Actually, I was wondering if maybe I could borrow the Neon. I don't want my mom to see the miles I put on my car."
"Oh, boy. You're going to spy on Dylan, aren't you? You're going to snoop around Kinghorn."
"I just want answers. Is that so bad?"
"No, but it's dangerous there."
"You have a best friend who's a badass, shall I say more?"
"Fine. You're right, but I have two conditions. Take a pepper spray with you and if we get to go camping," she said.
"I'll take the bus. Bye." And I hung up.
I'd been to Portland on several occasions, but I didn't know the city well. I stepped off the bus armed with my cell, a map, and my own inner compass. The buildings were redbrick, tall and slender, blocking the setting sun, which blazed out from below a thick stretch of storm clouds, settling the streets under a canopy of shadow. The storefronts all had verandas and quaint signs extending over the doors. The streets were lit by black witch hat lamps. After several blocks, the congested streets opened up to a wooded area, and I saw a sign for Kinghorn Prep. A cathedral, steeple, and clock tower peered above the treetops.
I stayed on the sidewalk and rounded the corner onto 32nd Street. The harbor was only a few blocks away, and I caught glimpses of boats passing behind the shops as they came in to dock. Halfway down 32nd Street, I saw a sign for Blind Joe's diner. I pulled my interview questions out and read them over one last time. The plan wasn't to look like I was holding an official interview. I hoped that if I casually broached the subject of Miranda with the employees, I could tease out something the handful of reporters before me had somehow missed. Hoping the questions were stored to memory, I underhanded the list into the nearest trash can.
The door chimed when I entered.
The floor was yellow and white tile, and the booths were upholstered in nautical blue. Pictures of the harbor hung on the walls. I sat in a booth close to the door and shrugged out of my coat.
A waitress in a stained white apron appeared beside me. "Name's Kelly," she told me in a sour voice.
"Welcome to Blind Joe's. Special today is the tuna fish sandwich. Soup of the day's lobster chowder."
Her pen was poised to take my order.
"Blind Joe's?" I frowned and tapped my chin. "Why does that name sound so familiar?"
"Don't you read the paper? We were in the news for a week straight last month. Fifteen minutes and all that."
"Oh!" I said with sudden clarity. "Now I remember. There was a murder, right? Didn't the girl work here?"
She clicked her pen impatiently as an answer. "Want me to bring out a bowl of that chowder to start?"
I didn't want lobster chowder. In fact, I wasn't remotely hungry. "That must have been hard. Were the two of you friends?"
"Hell, no. You going to order or what?"
I wished the waiter across the room were taking my order. He was short, bald back to his ears, and his body type mimicked the toothpicks in the dispenser at the end of the table. His eyes never reached higher than three feet off the ground. One friendly smile from me might have been enough to have him spilling Miranda's entire life story. "Sorry," I told Kelly. "I just can't stop thinking about the murder. Of course, it's probably old news to you. You must have had reporters in here all the time asking questions."
She gave me a pointed look. "Need a few more minutes to look over the menu?"
"Personally, I find reporters irritating."
She leaned in, bracing a hand on the tabletop. "I find customers who take their own sweet time irritating."
I blew out a silent sigh and flipped open the menu. "What do you recommend?"
"It's all good. Ask my boyfriend." She gave a tight smile. "He's the cook."
"Speaking of boyfriends…did Miranda have one?" Nice segue, I told myself.
"Spill," Kelly demanded. "You a cop? A lawyer? A reporter?"
"Just a concerned citizen."
"Yeah, right. Tell you what. Order a milkshake, fries, the Angus burger, a bowl of chowder, and give me a twenty five percent tip, and I'll tell you what I told everybody else."
I weighed my options: my allowance or answers. "Done."
"Miranda hooked up with that kid, Dylan whatever his last name is. The one in the papers. He was in here all the time. Walked her back to her apartment at the end of her shift."
"Did you ever talk to Dylan?"
"Not me."
"Do you think Miranda committed suicide?"
"How should I know?"
"I read in the newspaper that a suicide note was found in Miranda's apartment, but that there was also evidence of a break -in."
"And?"
"You don't find that a little…odd?"
"If you're asking if I think Dylan could have put the note in her apartment, sure I do. Rich kid like that could get away with anything. Probably hired somebody to plant the note. That's how it works when you got money."
"I don't think Dylan has a lot of money." My impression had always been that Hunter was the wealthy one. Nudge never stopped raving about his house. "I think he went to Kinghorn Prep on scholarship."
"Scholarship?" she repeated on a snort. "What's in the water you been drinking? If Dylan don't got big time money, how'd he buy Miranda her apartment? Tell me that."
I struggled to hold my surprise in check. "He bought her an apartment?"
"She never shut up about it. About drove me insane."
"Why would he buy her an apartment?"
Kelly stared down at me, hands on hips. "Tell me you ain't really that dumb."
Oh. Privacy. Intimacy. Got it.
I said, "Do you know why Dylan transferred out of Kinghorn?"
"Didn't know he did."
I juggled her answers with the questions I still wanted to ask, trying to summon them up from memory.
"Did he ever meet friends here? Anyone other than Miranda?"
"How'm I supposed to remember that?" She gave a hard eye roll. "I look like I got one of them photographic memories?"
"How about a really tall guy? Really tall. Long blond hair, good -looking, tailored clothes."
"Yeah, I remember that guy. Hard not to. All moody and quiet. He came in once or twice. Wasn't that long ago. Maybe around the time Miranda died. I remember 'cause we were serving corned beef sandwiches for St. Patrick's Day and I couldn't get him to order one. Just glared at me like he would have reached across the table and slit my throat if I'd stuck around reading the daily specials any longer. But I think I remember something. It's not like I'm nosy, but I do got ears. Sometimes I can't help hearing things. Last time the tall guy and Dylan came in, they were hunched over a table, talking about a test."
"A test at school?"
"How should I know? From the sound of it, the tall guy failed a test, and Dylan was none too happy about it. He shoved his chair back and stormed out. Didn't even eat all his sandwich."
"Did they mention Miranda?"
"The tall guy came in first, asked if she was working. I told him no, she wasn't, and he got on his cell phone. Ten minutes later, Dylan strolls in. Miranda always handled Dylan's table, but like I said, she wasn't working, so I got it. If they talked about her, I didn't hear. But it looked to me like the tall guy didn't want Miranda around."
"Do you remember anything else?"
"Depends. You going to order dessert?"
"I guess I'll have a slice of pie."
"Pie? I give you five minutes of my valuable time, and all you order is pie? I look like I got nothing better to do than chitchat with you?"
I glanced around the diner. It was dead. Other than a man hunched over a paper at the counter, I was the only customer.
"Okay…" I scanned the menu.
"You're going to want a raspberry lemonade to wash that pie down." She scribbled it on her pad. "And after dinner coffee." More scribbling. "I'll be looking forward to an additional twenty percent tip with that." She pinned me with a smug smile, then tucked her pad into her apron and sashayed back to the kitchen. There goes my allowance…