phones ringing, a clicking that might have been typewriter keys. I imagined the station house the way it is on TV, with prisoners being brought in and sleepy cops going on and off duty.
"Everything's major, Jesse," Officer Valle said. "We'll get someone from the lab out there right away."
"Let me know," I said.
She called me back on it early the next week. The tracks were the same. "I should tell you we found more in the sand at Clambake Point. It seems logical to suppose the car came south, cut in at Sapphire Cove Road, turned at the Point, and came back, heading north again. And the only people who know you can get to the Point along that road are the locals, right?"
"Right," I said. "And the surfers. And kids from school who go there to make out or do drugs or booze."
I pressed the cool earpiece of the phone against my forehead, figuring out the time. It fitted. Too bad he hadn't driven himself off the edge instead.
"Is it logical to suppose he was stinking drunk?" I asked.
"We don't know that, but it's certainly a possibility."
"It's certainly a possibility," I mouthed soundlessly back at the phone. These cops were so full of it!
"Jesse?" Her voice was tiny and tinny through the phone. "We're keeping at it, Jesse. We'll find him."
"Sure." But when? And how?
It was a terrible week. We had phone calls on the reward and on our posters, and I found out that people can be greedy and cruel and ghoulish and that they lie a lot. I found out, too, that people can be caring, and sad for you, and kind. We had cards sent to us, and religious poetry. Strangers told us we were in their hearts and prayers, that masses were being said for Bry, that candles were being lit. A businessman in Newport added another five thousand dollars to Dad's reward money. A scout troop collected eighty-three dollars, and a psychic whose name was Madame Zara told the police she saw the car plainly and it was a hearse with pale curtains and a casket inside.
Officer McMeeken said, "At least she didn't say it was being pulled by six black horses," and then he coughed and looked uncomfortable.
Alexander invited me to come to Pasadena for a while, but I told him I had too much to do. I spent a lot of time at Clambake Point or up in the gazebo or drifting aimlessly on my surfboard. I made endless lists of what I knew and what I didn't. Three or four times I convinced myself that I should call Chloe and tell her what kind of response we'd had to the posters. I even got out the phone book to look up her number. It wasn't hard to find. On the E-for-Eichler page one name was underlined in yellow Day-Glo pen. I didn't call her and I didn't write the number down, but it kept repeating itself over and over inside my stupid head. How could something as unimportant as a phone number stick, and those missing details about the car drop into nothingness?
On Thursday Crocker Brothers told us Bry's headstone was ready and they'd be erecting it, so we went out to the graveyard that evening and stood in the long red rays of the sun and read the simple words that told who lay there, under the earth. Mom had brought honey-suckle from the hedge by our trailer and when she put it in the vase of water a ladybug flew out from the tangle of yellow. A Del Mar ladybug. I wished it would stay there, with Bry.
Friday afternoon, because I had to do something, I took the bus into Costa Mesa. The fireworks stands for tomorrow were doing a rush last-minute business on the edge of town. Little kids and their parents crowded the counters, getting their sparklers and spinning jennys. One of the best things about living at the beach is being able to shoot your Fourth of July firecrackers into the ocean. It's illegal now, but the kids still do it anyway. Bry always liked the cherry bombs best, even though he couldn't hear them.
"It's fun to see peoples faces when those suckers explode," he'd say.
Not this year, Bry. No Fourth of July for you. "No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon."
"Everything's major, Jesse," Officer Valle said. "We'll get someone from the lab out there right away."
"Let me know," I said.
She called me back on it early the next week. The tracks were the same. "I should tell you we found more in the sand at Clambake Point. It seems logical to suppose the car came south, cut in at Sapphire Cove Road, turned at the Point, and came back, heading north again. And the only people who know you can get to the Point along that road are the locals, right?"
"Right," I said. "And the surfers. And kids from school who go there to make out or do drugs or booze."
I pressed the cool earpiece of the phone against my forehead, figuring out the time. It fitted. Too bad he hadn't driven himself off the edge instead.
"Is it logical to suppose he was stinking drunk?" I asked.
"We don't know that, but it's certainly a possibility."
"It's certainly a possibility," I mouthed soundlessly back at the phone. These cops were so full of it!
"Jesse?" Her voice was tiny and tinny through the phone. "We're keeping at it, Jesse. We'll find him."
"Sure." But when? And how?
It was a terrible week. We had phone calls on the reward and on our posters, and I found out that people can be greedy and cruel and ghoulish and that they lie a lot. I found out, too, that people can be caring, and sad for you, and kind. We had cards sent to us, and religious poetry. Strangers told us we were in their hearts and prayers, that masses were being said for Bry, that candles were being lit. A businessman in Newport added another five thousand dollars to Dad's reward money. A scout troop collected eighty-three dollars, and a psychic whose name was Madame Zara told the police she saw the car plainly and it was a hearse with pale curtains and a casket inside.
Officer McMeeken said, "At least she didn't say it was being pulled by six black horses," and then he coughed and looked uncomfortable.
Alexander invited me to come to Pasadena for a while, but I told him I had too much to do. I spent a lot of time at Clambake Point or up in the gazebo or drifting aimlessly on my surfboard. I made endless lists of what I knew and what I didn't. Three or four times I convinced myself that I should call Chloe and tell her what kind of response we'd had to the posters. I even got out the phone book to look up her number. It wasn't hard to find. On the E-for-Eichler page one name was underlined in yellow Day-Glo pen. I didn't call her and I didn't write the number down, but it kept repeating itself over and over inside my stupid head. How could something as unimportant as a phone number stick, and those missing details about the car drop into nothingness?
On Thursday Crocker Brothers told us Bry's headstone was ready and they'd be erecting it, so we went out to the graveyard that evening and stood in the long red rays of the sun and read the simple words that told who lay there, under the earth. Mom had brought honey-suckle from the hedge by our trailer and when she put it in the vase of water a ladybug flew out from the tangle of yellow. A Del Mar ladybug. I wished it would stay there, with Bry.
Friday afternoon, because I had to do something, I took the bus into Costa Mesa. The fireworks stands for tomorrow were doing a rush last-minute business on the edge of town. Little kids and their parents crowded the counters, getting their sparklers and spinning jennys. One of the best things about living at the beach is being able to shoot your Fourth of July firecrackers into the ocean. It's illegal now, but the kids still do it anyway. Bry always liked the cherry bombs best, even though he couldn't hear them.
"It's fun to see peoples faces when those suckers explode," he'd say.
Not this year, Bry. No Fourth of July for you. "No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon."
Similar Books
