I had to go. Why, you already know.
I have to go too.
Yes. But you don't have to go here.
Then where?
You'll see.
But I don't.
Then look! Look at tomorrow.
What's tomorrow?
Tomorrow is every day.
That's a cliche.
Not from here.
I looked over at Randy. 'She gave you this…or you took it?'
'She gave it to me. Why?'
'You understand what she's telling you, then?'
'I…think so. She said Lana's mother was always beating on her. Not like…punching her or anything. Telling her she was a piece of garbage. Ugly. Stupid. Always in the way. Her mother, she used to leave stuff around where Lana could find it. If a girl killed herself in the newspapers, her mother would leave the article. She had real long hair, Wendy told me. Lana did. Real long. She never cut it from the time she was a little kid. One day her mother cut it off. While she was asleep. She thinks her mother put something in her food, knocked her out. When she woke up, it was all hacked off. Her mother had always been after her to be…fashionable. She wanted her to have short hair, but Lana never would. So she cut it all off. Then she took her to the beauty parlor so they could fix it.'
'Fucking freak.'
'She was, you know. I never met her, but Lana told Wendy stuff. The poem, it's like Lana saying maybe she should have run away instead. You can always do that.'
'You think Wendy wants to run away?'
'Yeah. Not like…to the streets or anything. But out of…here. Around here, I mean. This is a dead place, Wendy says. I used to think she was…a little nuts, you know? But I can see it, see what she means.'
'Me too,' I told him.
'You don't think she's…I mean, that poem, you don't think it's crazy to be talking to a dead person?'
'It's just a poem, Sonny,' I said. But it didn't feel like that. Maybe the channels were open. Maybe they were close enough, the emotionally abused girl and her pal who explored death with her soul. I hadn't spoken to Wesley in a long time. 'I don't know where I'm going, but you better not send anyone after me.' His suicide note. Just before he blew himself into the Zero. The ice–monster's voice is still in me when I hunt. Wesley, singing his killer's song in perfect pitch. The best, he was. Nobody could touch him until he got tired. So tired he touched himself. With a few sticks of dynamite. Even his name spreads terror from the grave.
And the last time I listened to his song, a baby died.
'It's time to crank this up,' I told the kid. 'And I need you for backup.'
'To drive?'
'No. Not yet, anyway. I need to see this Dr. Barrymore. Talk to him a little bit. I'm gonna give him a call straight up, make an appointment if he'll see me. And I need you to cover me— tell him your mother hired me, you know the story.'
'Okay. When are you going to do it?'
'Now,' I told him, heading for the phones in the living room.
The Yellow Pages had two numbers listed for Crystal Cove, local and 8oo. I tried the local, asked for Barrymore.
'Hold please,' a woman's voice, pleasant–efficient. Some sort of New Age Muzak kept me company. Then:
'Dr. Barrymore's office.' Another woman, sounding like the pleasant–efficient balance was tipped a little toward efficient.
'Good morning. I wonder if I might speak to Dr. Barrymore.'
'Who may I tell him is calling, please?'
'My name is Burke. I'm calling on behalf of Mrs. Lorna Cambridge.'
'Let me see if he's available.'
'Thank you.'
No music–on–hold this time, just an expensive fiber–optic hum.
'This is Dr. Barrymore.'
'Good morning, Doctor. My name is Burke. I'm a private investigator, retained by Mrs. Cambridge. She and some others have been concerned about some youth problems in the community, and I'm told you're the leading expert. I wonder if I could impose on you for a few minutes of your time, at your convenience.'
