Swallowing Stones Read online

  “Tom, we don’t know that for a fact.” Karen MacKenzie reached over and pressed her hand gently on his back.

  “Can we have pizza?” Josh asked. “I’ll call.”

  His mother nodded. “Go ahead. I don’t feel much like cooking.”

  Tom MacKenzie pulled a can of beer from the refrigerator, then leaned against the refrigerator door. He stared down at Michael. “You know anything more about this?”

  “Dad, I told the police everything I know.”

  His father, seemingly satisfied with Michael’s answer, took a long swallow of beer. Then he began to drone on about the afternoon’s investigation. Michael had to force himself to listen. His mind was racing all over the place. According to his father, the police had gone through the entire house, probably looking for the Winchester, before bringing out the metal detectors and scanning the backyard. If they had come to the house looking for the rifle, Michael suddenly realized, then they had never believed it was stolen in the first place. And his parents were probably thinking the same thing, which was why his father was so desperately trying to point the finger at Joe.

  All this time Michael had been living with a false hope, believing that he had gotten the cops off his back after the first round of questions three weeks ago. And all this time they had suspected him. They had known all along that the bullet was a .45-caliber, 500-grain. When their investigation turned up no other guns in the area big enough to fire a bullet that size, they had come back to the one person who did own such a gun: Michael MacKenzie.

  Things had gotten far worse than he’d ever imagined. At least he had bought a little time by telling Ralph Healey he’d give him a list of the kids who were at his party. It would take a while to question all of them. Michael felt a twinge of guilt. Somehow he had managed to drag forty of his friends into the mire. But that wasn’t what was making him feel sick; he knew they’d be questioned and that would be the end of it. No. What made his empty stomach turn sour was that he had done almost nothing to defend Joe. He had let Josh mouth off about his theory, raising Healey’s suspicions. He could have kept the investigation from going any further. He could have pointed the police in a different direction. All he had had to do was stand up and say that he was the person they were looking for. That he was Charlie Ward’s murderer. Instead he had kept silent.

  Now he had no choice. He would have to tell Joe what he had done. He had to let him know what had happened before the cops showed up at Joe’s house with a warrant for his arrest.

  18

  michael lay awake most of the night wondering how to break the news to Joe. Then, while the neighbor’s cat foraged below his window for crickets in the early-morning hours, Michael finally fell asleep, only to awaken a few hours later in sheets soaked with the sweat of his nightmares.

  That morning he called Joe and told him to meet him in the parking lot at the pool after work. If Joe was surprised or even curious, he didn’t let on, simply saying that he’d be there.

  Michael had seen Joe only a few times since the day he had come by Michael’s house to tell him how it had gone with the police. He wondered if Joe thought he was avoiding him, although Joe hadn’t exactly been seeking him out, either. But whatever was going on between them, Michael needed to believe he could still count on his friend. And sure enough, after work he found Joe leaning against his red Mustang in the parking lot, arms folded, head tipped forward as if he were dozing. He wore a rolled-up blue bandanna tied around his head. The single skull earring danced in the late-afternoon sunlight.

  “What’s the deal?” he said when he saw Michael coming.

  “Not here,” Michael told him.

  Joe eyed him intently, then shrugged. “So get in the car. We’ll go wherever you want.”

  Michael hadn’t thought about going anywhere in the car. He hadn’t set foot inside the Mustang since the day he failed his first driver’s test. He felt his chest tighten as Joe opened the car door. His nerves on edge, he listened as the engine roared awake, bringing the radio on full blast.

  “I miss my CD player,” Joe said when Michael finally managed to force himself into the passenger seat. Then he grinned. “Think the cops’ll ever find the guy who stole it?” When Michael didn’t respond, Joe leaned down and pulled a can of beer from underneath the driver’s seat. He tugged at the metal tab, and warm beer erupted onto his hand like white lava. He chugged the entire can within seconds, crushed it beneath his foot, and tossed it under the car parked next to him. “Can’t get caught with an open can in the car while I’m driving,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Rules are rules.” Then he laughed.

  Michael was painfully aware that Joe was rarely without a can of beer in his hand these days, at least on those few occasions when he’d seen him. Before, he had drunk only at parties. But this was something new. If Michael allowed himself to think about it, which he tried not to, he would have to admit that Joe’s drinking had gotten worse since they had learned about Charlie Ward’s death.

  Joe shifted the car into reverse and backed out of the space. “So are you gonna talk, or what?”

  “Just drive,” Michael told him.

  “Drive where?”

  “Anywhere. The Swamp.”

  For some reason he could not explain, Michael felt drawn to the Great Swamp that afternoon. And because it was a weekday, he knew not many people would be around.

  Joe parked the car, pulled an old backpack from the trunk, filled it with three cans of beer, then headed toward the first trail. Michael followed. In the past he would have worried about being caught in the Swamp with beer. But that didn’t matter much now.

  He knew without asking where Joe was headed. So when they came to a bend in the trail that opened into a wide circle, he cupped a hand over his brow and stared up at the Ghost Tree as if he had just run into an old friend he hadn’t seen in years.

  The ground beneath the tree was completely bare. No ferns, no grass. Not even weeds grew there. And in the middle, solemn and majestic, stood the ancient and enormous sycamore. Hazy sunlight spilled down between its leaves. It looked far from ghostly.

  He had heard once that the tree had gotten its name from the way it looked in the winter. Without its leaves, the thick bare branches appeared smooth and white, like brittle bones reaching skyward. Ancient souls were said to dance around the tree at midnight whenever there was a full moon. But for all the spooky old legends, the tree had never seemed haunted to him. And he and Joe had spent hundreds of hours beneath its branches.

  Funny, he hadn’t thought about the Ghost Tree for years, except for that time in the park when he met Joe to explain about the stolen gun story.

  Joe walked around to the other side of the circle, where the path continued, and Michael followed. They had gone only a few yards when Joe stepped off the path into the woods, slapping branches out of his way. Michael knew Joe was heading for the pond, a special place they’d discovered years ago.

  Their sneakers made sucking sounds in the soft mud as they walked along. The pond was only fifty yards or so from the Ghost Tree, but when they were kids it had seemed to take them hours to get there.

  Within minutes they were clearing a space beneath a tree a few feet from the edge of the pond. It had been at least three years since they had last come to this spot. Joe rubbed his back against the rough bark, like a lazy bear, then slid comfortably to the ground. Michael sat beside him so that he would not have to look directly at his face.

  Through the branches, he could just make out the top of the Ghost Tree. He thought about the times he and Joe had dared each other to spend the night there alone. Kids were always daring each other to sleep in the Ghost Tree. They claimed that if you could survive the night there alone, you could survive anything. It had become a kind of rite of passage for some of them, although Michael had never actually met anyone who had done it.

  Joe took a beer from his backpack and offered it to Michael, who declined. “Okay, we’re ten thousand
miles from civilization,” he said, yanking open the tab. “Now are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “The cops were at my house last night,” Michael said.

  “Again? Man, they never give up.”

  Michael kept his eyes on the pond. On the other side, a large snapping turtle was slowly, laboriously pulling itself up onto a rock. “They know the bullet came from the Winchester.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a stream of beer escape from Joe’s mouth as he suddenly jerked the can away. Joe grabbed his wet T-shirt, squeezing it with his hand. “Your Winchester? How do they know it was your Winchester?”

  Michael told him everything that had taken place the night before. How they had traced the bullet to his gun and had found the empty casing in the woods behind the house. He told him everything except that the suspicion had shifted to Joe.

  Joe finished the beer and opened another. “I keep telling you, man, they can’t prove a damn thing without the rifle. If they don’t have the murder weapon, they don’t have a case.”

  Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the pond. Michael picked up a flat stone and skipped it over the water. He had never felt so lost before. Always, there was Joe. From the first time they met, even as small boys, he had known he could tell Joe anything, because Joe would not judge him. He would only listen. But that was not going to happen this time. And he knew, too, that no matter how all of this turned out, they would never come back to this place again.

  “You need to know something,” he said quietly.

  Joe had leaned his head back against the tree and appeared to be dozing. Without opening his eyes, he said, “What’s that?”

  The air felt so heavy Michael thought he might drown if he took a breath. “Healey’s got this idea that maybe you borrowed the rifle and then said it was stolen to cover up the fact you fired it.”

  Joe’s silence was deafening. It beat against Michael’s ears until the ache crept into his skull. When Joe finally did speak, his voice was low. The words slipped from his tongue like slow drops from a leaking faucet. “Yeah? And where would he have gotten that idea?”

  Michael knew Joe was staring right at the side of his face. He could feel his friend’s warm breath against his ear, but he kept his eyes straight ahead. “Who knows how Healey’s mind works?” he said. “He’s desperate. He’s got to make a case out of something. This thing’s been going on for weeks now.”

  “So he’s going to make me a suspect?”

  Michael skipped another small rock into the pond, but it hit the water wrong and sank. He watched the ripples tear at the surface. “Maybe not. It could be a bluff. Healey wants me to give him a list of everyone who was at my party. That’s forty other potential suspects to keep him busy for a while.”

  Joe flattened the beer can against the tree with the palm of his hand. “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Just sit back and wait for them to come arrest me?”

  The look on his friend’s face was more than Michael could bear. “No. That’s not going to happen. I’ll tell them the truth first.”

  Joe was chugging the last of the three beers. “Either way I get nailed,” he said. “I’m an accessory, remember? And don’t forget, I’m the one who filed the false police report.” He stood up, swaying slightly, and threw the empty, crushed cans into the backpack. “Man, life really sucks, doesn’t it?”

  Michael pulled himself up and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Joe … what can I say, man? I never meant for any of this to happen. I don’t know how everything got so screwed up.”

  At first Joe nodded, as if he understood, but Michael could see the twitching tightness in his jaw. It made him think of a wild animal about to bare its fangs. Then he said, “Yeah, well, screwing things up seems to be what you do best these days.”

  Michael could only stare back at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look at you, man. You had it all. Big jock at school, colleges practically knocking down your door …” His eyes narrowed. “A babe like Darcy Kelly.”

  Michael waited. He had no idea where this was going.

  But Joe only let out a disgusted snort, then turned and began to walk back toward the car.

  Michael could think of nothing to do but follow. It was a long walk back to his house, and besides, Joe was in no condition to drive.

  When they reached the car, Michael asked for the keys. Surprisingly, Joe didn’t argue; he merely handed them over without comment. The minute Michael put his hands on the steering wheel, they began to sweat. This was where it had all begun. Less than two months ago he had sat behind this same wheel, Joe by his side, on his way to take his driver’s test. Nothing stood in the way of his future. Nothing, until a stranger’s voice, floating over the airwaves from fifty miles away, had told him he had killed a man.

  Joe was slumped down in the seat. His head bounced loosely against the headrest. Michael wondered if Joe had fallen asleep, but decided he was only pretending so that they wouldn’t have to talk.

  Michael was haunted by the knowledge that if he had gone to the police the morning he first heard about Charlie Ward’s death, Joe would not be in this mess. He wouldn’t even be an accessory. Joe had done what he had because he believed he was protecting Michael. And Michael had never once tried to stop him.

  It was already past six. But Michael knew better than to take Joe home when he’d been drinking. Instead he headed toward the highway, planning to find someplace to eat.

  If he had been paying attention as he came up the entrance ramp, Michael might have noticed the white Toyota Tercel that was stopped in front of him at the Yield sign. But his mind was on Joe. So when the Tercel began to move forward, as if to merge, Michael, cruising up the ramp, barely hit the brake pedal, and looked in his side-view mirror for oncoming traffic. He did not see that the Tercel had suddenly, and unexpectedly, stopped again. When he did notice, it was too late. He slammed the brakes as hard as he could but slid into the Tercel’s rear bumper anyway. The screech of brakes screamed through the hot summer air.

  Joe bolted upright. “What the—”

  “She was merging, then just stopped,” Michael said, scarcely getting the words out without a stutter. “It’s okay. I don’t think there’s any damage. I hardly hit it.”

  The person in the Tercel had not moved, probably startled by the impact and the sound of the Mustang’s brakes. Michael backed up, pulled over to the edge of the ramp, and put on the four-way flashers. He wanted to see if the driver was okay. He was certain he hadn’t hit her car hard. Still, he needed to make sure. But before he could open the door, Joe sprang from his side of the car and with enormous, purposeful strides headed toward the Tercel.

  Michael looked on as Joe peered in the window of the driver’s side, then jerked backward as if someone had suddenly pulled a gun on him. Before Michael realized what was happening, Joe jumped onto the hood of the Tercel and began to stomp on the windshield, alternating his feet, sometimes crashing down with both at once. He screamed at the girl in the car, calling her a crazy, stupid bitch, shouting until he was hoarse that she had almost wrecked his Mustang. Michael looked on in horror as fine weblike cracks spread through the glass.

  Frantic, he ran toward the other car. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted. But Joe did not seem to hear him. Again and again he brought his foot down on the windshield, until it began to cave in. Too terrified to think, Michael instinctively yanked open the car door to get the driver out before the glass caved in completely. And when he opened the door, he thought his heart might stop altogether. There, with her hands over her ears, eyes squeezed shut, screaming as loudly as she could, was Amy Ruggerio. With one final blow, the glass shattered around her, spraying tiny crystal shards that shimmered like sleet caught in her dark hair.

  Michael put his hand around her arm and tried to pull her out, but she would not budge. She would not stop screaming. Maybe it was better if she didn’t move, he decided. Glass was ever
ywhere: in her lap, on her shoulders, on her thighs. It covered the dashboard, the seats, the floor. It lay like chipped ice on her feet, left vulnerable by thin-soled sandals.

  Above him, Joe stood on the hood of the Tercel, his body slightly hunched forward, swaying in a kind of stupor. He looked lost and confused, as if he had no idea how he had come to be there. When Joe looked up, Michael saw with shock that his face was soaked with tears.

  By now several cars had stopped, parking along the edge of the ramp, clicking on their own hazard lights. People Michael did not know were talking Joe down from the hood of the car, were carefully helping Amy from the driver’s seat, gently picking glass from her hair, like apes grooming one another.

  How could he have not recognized Amy’s grandfather’s car? Michael stumbled backward and sat down on the guardrail, feeling useless. He had done this. All of this. He had set it in motion. He suspected he was Joe’s real target, that his Friend’s uncontrollable drunken rage was really meant for him. Amy had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like Charlie Ward.

  He looked on as a woman in baggy orange shorts dusted glass from Amy’s hair. Then, for a split second, Michael thought he saw Jenna Ward’s face in Amy’s stunned expression. Not in her features, but in her eyes. Something in Amy’s eyes made him think of that first newspaper photograph of Jenna.

  Michael swallowed hard. Everything was falling apart, shattering as surely as the windshield of the Tercel. And all he could do in that moment was sit helplessly by, surveying the wreckage, while strangers frantically tried to clean up the mess.

  jenna

  19

  jenna was standing only a few yards from the Ghost Tree when she saw her father. He was sitting next to Michael MacKenzie, his head bowed in conversation only inches from the Doy s. When her father saw her, he smiled and waved, beckoning her forward. Amy took her hand and pulled gently, but Jenna couldn’t seem to move. She wasn’t sure her legs would carry her. They felt as wobbly as two rubber bands. She began to scream at Amy to let her go.