Disappearance at Devil's Rock Read online

  Dad pulls up tight behind the Griffins’ SUV. Mom’s door is open before the car is fully stopped. She speed-walks across the front lawn, moving like a broken robot alternating short strides with big, uneven steps that threaten to topple her over. Luis climbs out of the car and he sinks into the grass, which is still damp from the morning dew. His feet and ankles are instantly wet. Tommy’s only been missing for a handful of days but the long, snarly grass looks like it hasn’t been mowed in weeks. Now that he’s closer to the house, almost standing in its shadow, Luis thinks it does look different. He can see this place easily becoming the neighborhood haunted house, the one the kids tells stories about, and they’ll tell them so often you’ll have no choice but to believe them.

  Dad edges Luis forward with a slight shove and a “Come on” that has an exasperated edge to it. Luis’s father is older than everyone else’s dad; his late fifties is a decade and a half older than Mom. He and Mom are the same height, five foot seven, but physical opposites otherwise. Dad’s hair has gone totally gray. He’s thick through the chest, shoulders, and arms. His legs are as skinny as picket fence posts. Dad is generally kind, particularly to strangers, and loyal to a fault, but he craves confrontation like the morning’s first cup of coffee.

  Elizabeth Sanderson opens the front door. She is dressed for a jog: black yoga pants, sneakers, blue short-sleeved outer shell. Elizabeth offers Josh’s mom a weak smile that instantly collapses like a long-neglected bridge, and they embrace. Josh and his dad stand to the side, their heads down and hands folded in front of them. Luis’s mom climbs up the brick stairs, puts a hand on Josh’s dad’s shoulder before stepping in front of him. Elizabeth hugs Luis’s mom next. Luis is still slowly walking across the front lawn.

  Mom and Elizabeth continue to hold each other. She looks over Mom’s shoulder and she locks eyes with Luis. It’s not the hardness, the completeness of her stare that makes him feel so small, smaller than he always feels. It’s how quickly she looks away from him. Luis imagines his smallness as a condition without a cure, and it’s accelerating. He’ll shrink so that the grass is over his waist and then over his head, and he’ll continue shrinking until the grass stalks are as large as redwoods, until he’s down in the dirt with the ants and the ticks and the spiders, and then he’s even too small for them to bother with, and maybe it would be okay living down here alone in the secret roots of the world.

  Kate hovers back at the borderline of the kitchen and living room, running her foot along the crack between the hardwood and tile. Luis, Josh, and both sets of their parents are inside her house, grouped together in the small entryway that spills into the living room. They shouldn’t be here. Is it unfair of her to think that they’re here to make themselves feel better? Nothing they can say or do will help make Tommy come back. Kate didn’t quite articulate it in that way earlier when Mom announced who was coming over, but it was implied in her “Mom, you should’ve said no.”

  Kate hates the Griffins and Fernandezes right now. She blames them and hates them, all of them, even Luis, whom she’s had an obvious crush on forever. Luis has always made her laugh, and whenever the three boys were together in the house, Luis was nicer to her than Tommy was. Tommy would snap at her, tell her to leave them alone and go play with her own friends, and he wouldn’t even look at her when he’d say it. Luis would be the one to say, “Don’t listen to him” and “Let her watch us play Mario Kart.” A week ago Luis and his big brown eyes, jet-black hair, and sneaky smile would’ve sent an embarrassed and exhilarated Kate and her just-got-up morning wear (baggy sweats, dingy T-shirt, no training bra) retreating to her bedroom. Look at Luis now, hiding behind a wall of parents, and slouching next to Josh, both boys with their heads down and their hands in their pockets, like cowed prisoners. Two stupid-ass little boys. The stupidest. That’s all they are, and they lost Tommy. They took him and they lost him.

  Everyone is standing and not quite sure what to do or where to look. Mom insists they sit on the living room couch and be comfortable. Mom sits first but no one follows her lead, so she stands back up.

  Kate stares at the boys, daring them to look her way. Neither of them have yet.

  Nana, taking over the hostess role, politely asks if anyone wants any coffee, water, something to eat.

  Mrs. Fernandez says, “No, no thank you,” and the other adults mumble similar sentiments.

  Nana disappears into the kitchen and tends to the coffeemaker anyway.

  Sighs and awkward smiles are passed back and forth until Mom breaks the Antarctic ice and says, “Thank you, guys. For—for coming over. It’s good to see you.”

  Kate seethes. No, it’s not good to see them standing like their presence in and of itself is some sort of apology or admission of guilt that’s to be absolved by this weak-sauce act of contrition. And even worse, now they’re making Mom do the talking.

  The two dads blurt and bumble over each other’s words and it amounts to nothing at all, the drowsy buzz of a couple of dying bees. Mrs. Griffin nods, folds and unfolds her hands, and smiles the watery smile of the fuck-up, of the coward who knows what should be said but won’t or can’t.

  Mrs. Fernandez says, “It’s so good to see you too, Elizabeth. And Kate. And please, thank you for having us. We won’t keep you long. And—” She pauses, and sighs, and then talks again but the sentences don’t quite work and the accents are in the wrong places and so are some of the words. “You must—you’re so busy. We know. I mean. I can’t imagine, what, you know, and all you have to do. We thought it important. The boys, the boys—” She pauses again after saying “the boys” twice, like it’s a recognition that the boys no longer refers to the three friends. “They wanted to say that . . . they wanted to say something to you. To you both.”

  Kate stuffs earbuds into her ears. There’s no music playing yet. She has “Heart Shaped Box” queued up in case of emergency and she needs to drown them all out.

  The parents part, eager to offer up a sacrifice, and the two boys step forward, toward Mom. Josh’s eyes are puffy and he’s already crying, his lower lip caught in an earthquake, and it’s clear he can’t face her, that he won’t be able to say anything.

  Mom is stone-faced, unreadable, and stares at Josh, daring him to say something, anything. Josh covers his eyes with his hands and his head tilts toward the floor like Mom’s stare has weight, forcing his head down to never look up at anyone again.

  Kate’s anger softens and now she’s scared. What is Mom going to do or say? Is she going to start screaming at them all and blame them for Tommy’s disappearance? Pre–summit meeting, it was what Kate wanted, but now she wants Mom to endure whatever it is they have to say and then let them leave without any fireworks so they can handle this on their own. Is Mom going to tell them that she believes Tommy is dead and that she sees Tommy’s ghost and he leaves her written messages?

  Luis says, “I’m—I’m sorry, Ms. Sanderson.”

  Mom visibly twitches at the sound of her last name. Luis hasn’t called her anything but Elizabeth in all the years he’s been Tommy’s friend. In recent months he has been greeting her with playful variants of How the heck are you, Elizabeth? Luis isn’t a total mess like Josh is, but his voice is so off, or turned off. This is not Luis talking. The real Luis’s voice is a live wire; words crackling with energy, wit, and sometimes anger, always challenging you in some way. This Luis drones on in a toneless dirge like a talking head reading a teleprompter with news of an impending calamity that cannot be avoided or prepared for.

  “I’m sorry we snuck out and took those beers with us. I don’t know what we were thinking exactly. We’re not drinkers, really we’re not. We were trying them out, and we didn’t drink that much. And I know that’s not the important part, but I’m sorry we were so stupid. About everything. And then he left and we should’ve followed him right away, and I don’t know why we didn’t, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry we don’t know where Tommy went and I’m sorry I don’t know what happened. I wish I could take
it all back. That’s all I wish. Just take that night back.”

  Mom pulls Luis into a hug and she is crying, but it’s an under-control crying. She says, “Thank you, Luis. Thank you. It’s okay.”

  It’s not okay, but that’s not what she means, can’t be what she means. Luis looks so small and Mom has him totally enveloped in her arms, squeezing his head against her chest, her long hair falling over him. Luis hesitantly puts his arms around her waist.

  Kate turns on her music, the languid opening guitar notes lurch before the hesitant bass and drums keep the odd time loudly, and it looks like Mom and Luis are slow dancing. They break the hug as the chorus is shouted over the fuzzed-out guitar, and Luis goes back to his side of the room with the other parents. Mom quickly hugs Josh, too, rubs the top of his head as he shuffles away from her, and then Mom is alone on her side of the living room again. Kate should probably go over and stand with her, but she doesn’t.

  Mom starts speaking and gesticulating with her hands. The hand gestures are indecipherable without the words. The other parents stare down at their sons, and Josh and Luis shake their heads no in sync, and they occasionally shrug and say something brief. Kate doesn’t shut off the music, and she turns it up louder to ensure she doesn’t hear anything they say. She focuses on the secret choreography of their collective nonmovement.

  The two families eventually float toward the open door like lost balloons. They wave sheepishly at Kate and they squeeze Mom’s hands and arms as though testing out how strong or durable she is. Mom watches them trek across the lawn from the open door. After their two cars drive away, she turns to Kate and pantomimes taking out the earbuds. Kate takes one out.

  Mom says, “I’ll be back later with lunch.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out. Text if you want anything.” Mom waves bye with her car keys cupped in her hand and she shuts the door behind her.

  They’re all gone before the last song of the album, “All Apologies,” finishes.

  Luis’s parents decide they’re not going into work for another day, and Team Griffin-Fernandez reconvenes at Luis’s house. The adults sit at the kitchen table like weary delegates while his dad makes coffee and puts out a box of little powdered donuts. Josh takes a handful. Mrs. Griffin’s look of you-don’t-need-to-eat-all-those is as loud as a scream. Luis takes one donut to make his mom happy. He is not hungry anymore and the stomach pains from earlier have short-circuited out.

  Mr. Griffin says, “I’m glad we went. I mean, we had to go, and we wanted to go. But that was hard. Nothing compared to what poor Elizabeth is going though, I know, but I’m just saying, that wasn’t easy.”

  Luis wants to say something smart, something that stings and horrifies, something to make him stop talking.

  Mr. Griffin ends with “Proud of you boys for stepping up.”

  Josh, the kid who always has something to say, doesn’t say anything. Just like he didn’t really say anything at the Sandersons. Josh stuffs two donuts in his mouth, and the white powder clumps on his lips. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and little clouds of sugar float down to the table.

  Luis’s dad says, “Creamer, anyone?” and puts a bottle of Bailey’s next to the donuts, like a dare. “You two can go down into the basement and watch a movie if you want.”

  Josh doesn’t move from his spot. He likes hanging out with adults and listening to them talk. Even now, Luis knows Josh can’t help himself and would prefer to stay. Luis can’t leave this room fast enough.

  Mrs. Griffin says, “Go ahead, Josh. We’ll go home when you’re done with the movie.”

  The boys leave the kitchen and walk down into the partially finished basement. Luis’s dad did all the work himself, sacrificing almost a year’s worth of weekends and a handful of off days. In the early stages, while framing the space, he kept trying to get Luis to help him. Luis didn’t want any part of it. He wasn’t handy, and to his shame didn’t have that family DIY knack. Dad’s false mantra of “You’re doing great” and his manic see-how-patient-I’m-being-with-you vibe sent Luis retreating to his room and the computer.

  The carpeted basement stairs curl around to the left and into the finished space, a common room. The drop ceilings are low, the walls a bright white, and the floor covered with a spongy, beige rug. A bar is on the far wall; a couch in the middle faces a long, rectangular entertainment center, its lower shelves spilling over with DVDs and video games. There’s an Xbox, DVD player, too, and squatting on top like a large, black bird is the TV. All the random tennis balls, knee hockey equipment, and Nerf hoop stuff has been picked up and put away in crates pushed underneath the foosball table no one ever uses anymore. It smells musty down here, and Luis wonders if there’s a leak near the window over by the bar again.

  Luis asks, “What do you want to watch?”

  Josh says, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  Luis sifts through the DVD library that he’s ordered according to preference; his action and horror movies are in the front and faced out. The movies his sisters didn’t take to college with them (Bring It On, Grease, Pitch Perfect; he would never admit that he liked Pitch Perfect and had even watched it twice on his own) are stuffed way in the back of the shelving along with all the Disney and Pixar movies with which he used to be obsessed.

  Luis says, “Come on, pick something. You know what I got.” If Josh doesn’t pick anything then he’ll put in Dead Snow or maybe Dawn of the Dead, the original, the one with the insanely bright colors, that radioactive red of all the blood and guts, and in a weird way that makes the movie seem more real to him than all the CGI and dark shadows of the remake. His parents would be pissed if he put on a zombie/horror movie even though they didn’t say not to. They don’t understand how those movies are a comfort to him. In his favorite horror movies, he knows the rules by heart and the consequences of the rules being broken.

  Luis pulls out Dawn of the Dead and shakes the movie at Josh. The loose DVD inside rattles in the plastic.

  Josh, sitting on the couch behind him, says, “No zombies.”

  “Hey, you said whatever.”

  “Superhero or something funny. Seriously, no zombies.”

  Luis wants to be mean right now. He wants to call Josh a pussy and put the movie in anyway and then see what Josh does to stop him. But then Luis flashes on one of the iconic scenes in Dawn and it features the zombie who looks like Tommy. That Tommy zombie gets a machete stuck in his head and his brown eyes are huge and there’s a diminishing intelligence leaking out that’s utterly horrifying, but what’s worse is his lower jaw drops like a trap door and it hangs open and there’s all that darkness inside. Remembering that zombie, his favorite zombie, looks so much like Tommy makes his stomach hurt again.

  “Fine.” Luis throws the Dawn of the Dead DVD to the back of the shelf with the other banished movies. He pulls out The Avengers and pops it in.

  They don’t talk during the opening scene with Loki kicking S.H.I.E.L.D.’s collective ass. Luis can’t watch his favorite zombie movie anymore, and he doesn’t want to watch this, either. This won’t shut his brain off.

  Josh finds the TV remote on the couch cushion between them and mutes the movie. He says, “My parents search through my phone now, every night. Looking for, I don’t know, something.”

  Luis’s parents have always checked his phone periodically, so nothing new there. Luis unmutes the TV and the music and explosions are loud. He scoots closer to Josh so he can be heard without having to raise his voice, and asks, “Did you know anything about Tommy keeping a diary?”

  After Luis’s long hug with Ms. Sanderson, she asked the boys if Tommy had been acting depressed or preoccupied or strange in any way before that night in Borderland. They both shook their heads no. Then she told them she found a few pages from his diary and how Tommy wrote about zombies and other random stuff, and how he wrote about his dad. She asked them if they knew anything about that at all. Luis and Josh spliced two mumbling, sputter
ing sentences together into one answer. They weren’t lying. At least, Luis wasn’t. He honestly knows nothing of a diary.

  Josh: “No. I mean, I know he has all kinds of drawing notebooks, but like, a diary, no. He never showed me anything like that.”

  Luis: “She made it sound like she only found, like what, pieces of it? A few pages and not the whole thing? I don’t get that.”

  Josh: “Yeah, I don’t know.”

  Luis: “What do you think is in it?”

  Josh: “In what?”

  Luis: “The diary.”

  Josh: “I have no idea.”

  An underground base collapses and explodes on the TV screen, and the bad guy, that agent of chaos, is free.

  Luis: “Do you think Tommy wrote about . . . ?” He stops, afraid to say anything more.

  Josh: “I—I don’t know.”

  Luis is irrationally angry with Josh, sick of him saying I don’t know to everything. He thinks about asking Josh if he knows how it felt when Tommy’s mother was hugging him and holding him like that, like he was the one who needed to be comforted, not her. When he told her he was sorry he meant it like he’s never meant anything in his life. The sorry saturated him down to the mitochondria, and there’s no way Josh knows how close Luis came to telling her that he felt like the biggest fraud and phony in the history of the world and that he wished it was him instead of Tommy that was gone.

  Josh says, “I saw him standing outside my window again last night.”

  Luis doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at his friend.

  “That’s three nights in a row.”

  Luis asks, “What are we going to do?”

  Josh says again, “I don’t know.”

  Elizabeth at Split Rock, Camera Set Up, Notes About a Man Named Arnold

  Elizabeth hasn’t been back to Borderland since the morning after Tommy disappeared, four days ago. The police presence there this morning seems to be minimal, with one cruiser parked in the nearly empty main lot. There are two news vans, but the doors are shut and its occupants are nowhere in sight. With the hours and now days ticking away on Tommy like a doomsday clock, no media coverage is bad coverage, and she will knock on the van doors before returning to her car, but what she’s planning on doing now she wants to do alone and without distraction if at all possible. Elizabeth parks a few rows over from the vans and puts on one of Tommy’s baseball hats, one he stopped wearing and she found hanging by itself on the coat rack next to the back door like a dead leaf that hasn’t yet fallen. The hat is blue with some sort of blocky, video game symbol on the front panel, a broad-winged bird of prey with its thorax as a pyramid of triangles. A Legend of Zelda symbol maybe?