twenty-five

There’s no sign of the dogs up top. There are signs of their deaths—blood droplets on ferns and a bloodied drag mark and scattered fur. Their killer didn’t have time to clean up as much as he had with One-Eye.

I think about One-Eye and Flea and how they died, and I squeeze my eyes shut, push the horror of that away. Focus on something else. Something useful.

I look over to a half-fallen tree next to an outcropping of rock. I imagine the dogs’ killer hauling the corpses there and hiding behind the rock, watching as Jude calls down the hole.

When I round the rocks, there’s a shoe print on the ground, dug into damp earth, and blood on the tree stump. Wet drops of blood. A few white dog hairs cling to the undergrowth.

“Winter?”

Jude emerges from the hole. I imagine the dogs’ killer, hiding behind this rock, watching Jude, thinking how much he looks like another boy….

“Winter?” he says again.

I rub the goose bumps on my arms and walk over to him, saying, “Lift your shoe.”

“Huh?”

I wave for him to raise a sneaker, and when he does, I can see the pattern doesn’t match—it’s not even close. His feet are also several sizes larger.

“You found a shoe print?” he guesses.

I don’t answer, just take back my knife. I’ve already accepted that, as coincidental as Jude’s arrival was, it really was a coincidence, one supported by the evidence.

“About the deaths of these dogs,” he says. “I noticed blood on your knife. There’s more on your clothing. And I heard what sounded like a fight.”

“I had to do it. They—”

“I’m not questioning that,” he says. “Could the dogs have been wounded and you mistakenly thought they were dead?”

“Including the one at the bottom of the hole?”

“Yeah, that’s harder to explain.”

“I was heading for Reeve’s End. The dogs came after me. I ran. I had to stab Mange—the big brown one. I went down the hole into the mine shaft. I could hear two of the dogs going nuts up top. Then Flea—the smallest one—fell and his…his throat was cut. I thought maybe the other dog did it, but then she went quiet and there was…blood…dripping. Down the hole. I heard breathing and footsteps. I think he cut her throat and let her bleed out….” I swallow. “Then he threw down her bloodied collar.”

Horror grows in his eyes, the same horror I feel when I think of it.

“That’s…,” he begins. There’s a pause, and when he looks at me, he says, “Are you okay?” and that startles me, the empathy in his voice. I straighten fast and say, “Sure. It was bad, but I work in a doctor’s office. Blood doesn’t bother me. The alpha male was…worse. It affected Lennon more than me, though.”

He tenses and asks, “What’d he do?” and that seems a weird response, as if he’s afraid Lennon embarrassed himself by freaking out.

“He was just shocked. More than me. He has less experience with stuff like that.”

Jude relaxes. “Right. Yeah.” He looks toward the hole and then says, “Did the dogs’ killer say anything?” he asks.

“No. I could hear him breathing and moving, but he didn’t speak.”

“You know it’s a guy, though? Male?”

I shake my head. “It just saves me saying ‘he or she.’ ”

He silently processes and then says, “Let’s get back to town. We need to talk.”

We’ve walked maybe a quarter mile. Neither of us has said a word. I’m still reeling from the death of the dogs and trying to figure out what it means, and I think he’s doing the same. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “I’ve contacted my mother about Lennon. It changes nothing,” and I realize he’s changing the subject, distracting both of us.

He holds his phone. It’s an older model, banged up, with a crack in the screen. I read a text conversation with “Elysse Bishop.” It seems odd that it’s her full name—other kids set their contacts list to Mom, Dad, Asshole Brother…

Jude: Have you spoken to Lennon since Tuesday?

The message is in proper English, fully punctuated. It took nearly two hours for her to respond, and when she did, it was equally correct, as if they were exchanging formal letters.

Elysse: Hello, Jude. Nice to hear from you. I trust you’re well?

Jude: When did you last speak to Lennon? I know you’re in DC. Did he make his weekend check-in? It’s important.

Another hour passed.

Elysse: He texted. He said he was busy and couldn’t call.

Jude: That’s it?

Elysse: Yes. Why?

Jude: I don’t think that text came from Lennon.

The time stamp shows twenty minutes passed before his mother responded.

Elysse: I presume this conversation means you are unable to get hold of your brother. If he is ignoring you, I’d suggest it means he’s finally had enough of this—

Jude’s thumb quickly covers the rest of the message and scrolls past a few exchanges to where he tells his mother he has reason to believe Lennon is in trouble, possibly even kidnapped. It took over an hour to get a reply.

Elysse: Your father is convinced drug use isn’t the explanation for your behavior, Jude, but—

He scrolls down again quickly, past a few exchanges. I see something about Jude not understanding how much he’s hurt his father.

Jude: I don’t lie, Mother. You know that. I don’t lie. Don’t make up stories. Don’t drink. Don’t do drugs. If you knew me at all, you’d know none of those explanations hold.

Elysse: Your father is throwing a party tomorrow night. If you want to mend this rift—and speak to your brother—I would suggest you attend. I’d also suggest you clean yourself up and attend as the son we raised, not the sullen, ungrateful—

Jude pockets his phone. “She thinks I’m full of shit, as you can see. Despite the fact…” He shakes his head and doesn’t finish.

“You aren’t known for lying.”

He hesitates, as if realizing I read that part. Then he says, “That probably sounded like a typical guy telling his mom he doesn’t lie, drink, whatever. It’s not. I don’t do any of that. At all. It’s a personal choice.”

“So I can ask you anything and get an honest answer?”

“Of course not. I have a right to privacy. If I don’t want to give an honest answer, I don’t give one at all.”

“Okay. So…your mother doesn’t believe you. And your father would react the same way?”

“He might worry more, but he’d turn it over to her, and the end result would be the same, only I’d be in deeper shit with her for ‘bothering’ him.”

“This thing about a weekend check-in. I don’t mean to pry, but is there a reason for that? Lennon’s eighteen and living on his own, but has to check in on weekends?”

Mrs. Bishop mentioned drug use, and I’m wondering if that’s the answer, if Lennon is recovering from addiction or something and has agreed to a check-in system. But Jude looks at me, his brows drawn in confusion. Then he curses under his breath and says, “Lennon told you that?”

“He said he was eighteen. As for living on his own, I think I said that and he went along with it.”

“He’s seventeen. Finished high school in the spring, but he’s taking a gap year before college. He lives at home. The check-in is just a thing. Our parents travel a lot and they give him his space, so they just ask for a weekend call.”

“He didn’t want me to contact your parents. Saying he was eighteen and implying he didn’t live at home made that easier.”

It’s Lennon’s text to their mother I want to pursue next—that’s the obvious clue—but instead I hear myself saying, “This problem with your parents. It’s about you dropping out, right? And don’t tell me things just ‘came up.’ ”

“I’d prefer not to—”

“Too bad. This story of yours needs to make at least a little bit of sense if I’m going to consider working together. You left high school in your senior year, and clearly not because you weren’t getting the grades. You’re brilliant—”

“Actually, I’m not.”

“Top of your class in, what, every subject except math?”

“My IQ is 110. That’s barely above average. Do you know why I got those grades? Why I got trophies and awards? Because I had the advantages other kids do not. I had wealthy parents who wanted sons who achieved those grades and those trophies and those awards. I had tutoring for hours a day. The best athletic coaches money could buy. Hours of daily work to make sure I didn’t squander those lessons. I achieved those things because of training and practice. Pure and simple. I have no innate aptitude or talent—”

“Piano.”

He blanches but stays casual with, “What?”

“You’re a whiz at the piano. That’s talent, not training.”

“The sole exception to the rule and even there, most was still training and practice.”

“So that’s why you dropped out of school. You got tired of meeting all those expectations.”

He shrugs. “That works.” I know that’s not a lie, not the full truth, either. Just an explanation I can accept if I need one.

He continues as we walk. “The point is that I am estranged from my family and therefore they are not going to believe me about Lennon, and short of proof, no one else will either. If I go to the police, my mother will play it down, convinced I’m causing trouble.”

Which is what Lennon said too. Why he didn’t want to report his own incident. I remember reading those articles and thinking how politicians probably spent their kids’ adolescent years hiding the teens and their antics, but the Bishop boys had done nothing to hide. Yet even after years of model behavior, their mother was still vigilant, still ready to see the worst.

I could imagine how that maternal mistrust might build up until the quiet model son exploded from the pressure and made the biggest statement he could think of, by dropping out. The problem? Once he did it, he couldn’t turn around and undo it. Not a guy like Jude. So his grand statement backfired, and the life he screwed up the most was his own. No wonder he didn’t like to talk about it.

“About Lennon’s text,” I begin.

“Right.” He takes a small notebook and pen from his pocket. “Presumably it wasn’t sent by Lennon.”

“Presumably? He didn’t have his phone when I found him. Unless you can schedule a text—”

“You actually can. He’s done it before. But he went to check on Edie Tuesday night, and I’m not sure he’d have had a check-in text set so far in advance.”

“What if someone else sent it?”

Before he can reply, his phone sounds. He answers and listens and then says, “Yeah, I was out of range. You got something for me?”

He stops walking, tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder, and jots notes in his book.

“No, that’s great,” he says. “I’ll take it from here. Just please don’t tell my mother I was asking.”

A pause as I hear a man speak, and Jude answers with a forced laugh, “Exactly. If Lennon’s gotten himself in trouble, I want to clean it up before she finds out. Oh—” He glances my way. “If I give you another number, is there any chance you can get positioning for it?”

Jude covers the receiver and asks for Edie’s number. I give it and he relays that, then says, “Thanks, Roscoe, I owe you.”

I hear the man tell Jude to call if he needs anything. They sign off. Jude makes another notation in his book and says, “That’s a guy on my dad’s security team. He’s the one who tracked that pay phone for me, and his contact just got the last GPS signal for Lennon. Before we go check it out, though, you need a cell. I figure if you were using the pay phone, you don’t have one, right?”

“Not exactly in my budget.”

“Okay, but you need to be safe. I’ll buy one for you to use.”

I could point out that I said I was considering joining forces. I haven’t agreed. But he’s thrown me off balance. The offer is considerate in a way I wouldn’t have expected.

I need an ally. This is the one on offer, and I’ll need help if I want the best possible chance for Edie.

“Lennon left me money,” I say. “I planned to return it, but I can buy a phone from that.”

“Good. Then let’s go get you one.”

And with that, I’ve teamed up with Jude Bishop to find Lennon and Edie.