dots were still there, clearer now as they circled his mouth, his lips, the mike, the sources of the sound. There were ten, maybe fifteen, little transparent dots of light.
As he came to the end, they froze, and all at once flew away, as if it was too late and whatever it was they were trying to warn about would happen anyway.
Devin stopped the clip, backed it up, and played it again. Yeah, the specks were dancing around Cody, right until the end of the last verse. Then they took off, like little bats out of little hell.
First it had been him and Karston. Karston died. Now it was Cody and Cody died. What would the police make of this, he wondered? Dust. Same thing he would have before he’d seen the beast.
There were no dots dancing around him, though. None around One Word Ben. What about Cheryl? It was hard to say; she was furthest back in the shot, and there weren’t many close-ups.
He froze the screen and clicked through a frame at a time. It was digital video, and from a good camera, too, so the image was pretty clean. He tried to find a clear frame with Cheryl in it. Once he did, he captured the screen and opened it in his image editor. Using the magnifier tool, he zoomed in. There they were, circling her mouth, her head, her ears, as if infesting her with death.
Cheryl. Karston. Cody. Cheryl.
He zoomed in tighter. The image pixelated, broke up into little squares of different color and shading, but the light and dark still conspired to create an image. It wasn’t a clear picture exactly, more something that might be there or might not, like the face of the man in the moon.
Only this face didn’t look like the man in the moon.
It looked like Karston.
12
Devin’s parents couldn’t understand why, now of all times, he was suddenly so desperate to see Namana. They tried to put him off, fearful it was another sign of some hidden mental problem, or that the frantic, traumatized teen would just upset the fragile old woman.
His mother and father fought twice over it, long and hard, finally agreeing to forbid him, but Devin kept insisting, repeatedly and uncharacteristically. He didn’t whine about it like a child; he demanded it, in a tone of voice they’d never heard from him before.
So finally they relented, on the condition his father drive.
“You’re too upset for one, and we’re damned if we’re going to leave you alone again for a while,” his dad explained. He phoned the police, as he’d been instructed, to tell them where they’d be the next morning.
They’d planned on leaving at nine A.M., but the police called to ask for more details and phone numbers, which delayed their departure until nine thirty. Finally, his dad, his face a mask, stiffly tossed a file stuffed with papers onto the floor of the SUV’s passenger seat. He started the engine and wordlessly waited for Devin to climb in and put on his seat belt. They pulled out of the gated community, his father doing the speed limit, not a mile more or a mile less. Just the limit, as if every cop in the world were watching them.
In silence, they drove past the suburbs into the downtrodden industrial section of town, which was filled with old factories and rundown homes. It was only when they reached the interstate and the view of flat, square buildings surrendered to green, rounded hills that the invisible bond with Macy, and all its tensions and horrors, seemed to weaken just a bit.
His dad’s face softened, but the muscle beneath his right eye twitched. He blinked a few times too often, cleared his throat, and asked, with embarrassment, some pointless question about how comfortable Devin was in his seat, and if he’d managed to get any sleep.
Devin suddenly knew that what he had thought of as his father’s anger was really a kind of helpless fear. He wanted to pat his father on the shoulder, tell him what a great job he’d done raising his son, that his son was all right, and that everything was going to be okay.
But everything wasn’t going to be okay, so he couldn’t.
Eventually, his father broke the silence again. “There are things we have to talk about.”
“Age before beauty,” Devin said. It was an old line between them. His father smiled, remembering.
“Two big things. First, I’ve decided to request a transfer to San Diego. We’re going to put the house up. It’ll mean some big changes, like a smaller house, but…”
Devin stared.
He should have seen that one coming. His mother had been begging to leave for years. She had family in California. The schools were better there, she insisted, and there were more opportunities. His father had almost given in about a year and a half ago. Devin hadn’t been doing so well in school, but then the band formed and both his parents were happy to see him so involved. His father had probably hoped the issue was buried forever. But now, no more Macy.
His father kept talking, as if he had to explain why he’d given in.
“Your mother was right,” he said. “I just didn’t see it. Macy’s been dying for years. Now it’s just gone to hell and it’s sucking us down with it. They don’t even have gang slayings like that in New York. I’m only sorry I let us stay here so long. That’s my fault.”
“You don’t have to…,” Devin started to say. He understood. Part of him hoped that whatever he’d unleashed wouldn’t be able to travel that far.
“There’s something else,” his father said. “It’s a little harder to…to talk about.”
Devin’s brow furrowed.
The emotion began to drain from his father’s face. The mask returned. He was bracing himself.
“After all that’s happened, and hell, we don’t even know
Devin reached down and lifted the straw-colored file. It was thick with paper. Inside were a series of color Web page printouts. Images sprinkled among the text showed happy teens engaged in sports and other wholesome activities as they played on lush green fields with new equipment beneath a perfect blue sky. Other images showed the teens accepting guidance from older, wiser adults. Everyone smiled. Everyone was pleasant. Everyone was healthy.
Devin flipped through the pages. There were about twenty. Some had the perfection of their layout marred by handwritten notes from his father, and certain sections were highlighted in yellow. It still took a moment for Devin to register what he was looking at. They were ads for the rich kids’ version of drug rehab centers—behavior modification camps.
Devin stared, mouth open wide. His father exhaled and started talking again.
“It’s something we need to think about. Some of them look pretty nice. You’d have Internet access, a DVD player. We were thinking you could start maybe next week, avoid all the mess of moving, then meet us in San Diego later, start there with a clean slate.”
If Devin’s father were expecting some kind of fight, he didn’t get it. Instead Devin just laughed. It was a dismissive, derisive laugh that mushroomed uncontrollably into a ghoulish cackle. At the end of it, Devin just shook his head. “You know, Dad, I’ve never taken any drugs, but I sure as hell am thinking about it now.”
“Don’t talk like that,” his father said.
So he didn’t. He didn’t say anything for the rest of the drive.
The Daybridge Senior Care Facility looked just like the bright and shiny institutions in the folder his dad had dutifully prepared. It all seemed so clean, until they walked into the well-lit, tastefully decorated lobby and the smells Devin associated with old people filled the air. Dried skin dying too quickly. Sweet food mashed up so that it was easy to chew. A whiff of some gross cleaning fluid that didn’t mask the other smells.
Devin signed in at the counter. He turned to give his father the pen, but his old man shook his head. “No, Devin. I can’t see her. After you…after what happened yesterday, I’m just too drained. Half the time she doesn’t recognize me anyway. I’ll wait here.”
Devin looked at him, wondering if there’d ever be a time he wouldn’t want to see his own parent because it was too draining. Then, realizing he already felt that way about both of his parents, he just nodded. It would be
