Red Heart Tattoo (16 page)

Sanchez waited a couple of beats before speaking. “Not at this time. But we reserve the right to recall him for questioning. And so will the FBI.”

Paige stood and Roth scrambled up beside her. Wolcheski stepped aside at the door, but not before giving Roth a suspicious stare. Roth’s heart banged hard inside his chest. The cops thought he was guilty. And he couldn’t prove that he wasn’t.

“Don’t leave town,” Sanchez threw at their backs.

“My client will be in school,” Paige said over her shoulder. “He plans to graduate with the rest of his class, so of course he’ll be staying.”

They stepped into the corridor. Roth’s shirt was soaked with sweat that had bled through to his sweatshirt. “I—I’m sorry—” he started.

Paige shushed him, walked him out to where Max and Carla were waiting. She held up her hand to stop them from approaching just yet. “You should have told me about the fireworks,” she told Roth.

“I—I know. I was stupid. I should have told you. I should never have set them off in the first place. That was stupid too.” He raised his head, looked into her eyes. “You acted like you knew about it. In—in there … in the room.”

“I read the social networking sites too, Roth. Of course I know the gossip.”

He felt his face redden. “I did the fireworks. But I never set a bomb. I swear to God.”

She shook her head in disgust with his confession. Still, she said, “I believe you. I would never have agreed to defend you if I didn’t believe you. Plus, Morgan told me you would never do something like that.”

“Sh-she did?”

“My daughter’s a good judge of character, and I trust her judgment. Now go home. And go back to school when it starts. Tread carefully. Stay out of trouble. We’re on your side.”

Executioner was nervous. Apocalypse had come over, shut them up in Executioner’s bedroom and gone to work posting messages on several social networking sites from Executioner’s computer. “Finished,” Apocalypse said, signing off the latest posting. “If this doesn’t lead a trail straight to Stuart Rothman, nothing will. The cops are dying to charge someone.”

“It—it’s real anonymous, isn’t it?”

“And encrypted. Do you doubt me?”

“No! Never! I just want to make sure it can’t lead back to me … us,” Executioner added at the last second. Apocalypse was scary, but Executioner wanted to send the message that they were in this together.

Apocalypse swiveled the office chair and stared coldly at Executioner. “Don’t ever doubt me. I don’t like my motives being called into question. You agreed with my plan. You are as guilty as I am. But I don’t expect to get caught.”

Executioner swallowed hard. “I just want to be careful.” Licking dry lips, Executioner asked, “Is it true? Did Roth set the fireworks?”

“I heard rumors. Why do you think I hatched this plan to do him one better? Roth’s a creep. A stupid creep. Thinks he’s badass with his tats and piercings. Our school’s hotshots thought they were more special than the rest of us, but we showed them. We took the bunch of them down. We’re superior. Especially that Trent and Mark. I really hated them.”

Executioner did a throat clearing, hair standing up on both arms. Apocalypse was reveling in intellectual superiority, with not an iota of fear. Executioner was genuinely scared. “The—uh—rumor is that the queen bee is still blind.”

“Yeah,” Apocalypse said with a mirthless laugh. “Ain’t it sad? Green eyes, now dark, too bad. Hey—I’m a poet.”

Executioner laughed, not because the rhyme was funny, but because laughter was expected. The “poetry” had been delivered coldly, with absolute cruelty and without remorse. Apocalypse looked at Executioner and added, “I’m the best there is when it comes to sweet revenge.”

L
iza’s heart almost stopped when she opened her front door and saw Roth on her doorstep. He hadn’t come over in months, and when he did show up, she looked awful, having fallen asleep on the sofa watching television. “Roth. You should have called.” She pushed her hand through her ragged hair.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure, sure.” She backed away. “Want to sit? How about a soda?”

“This isn’t a social call, Liza.” He didn’t follow her out of the foyer.

She came back to stand in front of him and saw that his expression was anything but friendly. “So why are you here?”

“I spent the afternoon at police headquarters being questioned.”

“No way.”

“They think I set the bomb, Liza.”

The news rattled her. “But why? Why you?”

His face went stony; his eyes glinted. “Someone wrote about me setting fireworks off last fall. It’s all over the school blogs.”

She was still a little dulled from being awakened from a sound sleep, but slowly realization crept over her. “Are you accusing me of writing the blog entries? Because if you are—”

“I’m just stating facts. Some writers have hidden their identities, so I have no idea who posted the info. The cowards. I just know I confided in you about what I did. You blabbed then. Now it’s back, all over the Internet. The cops even read it.”

Her face went hot and her stomach queasy. “I would never do that to you.”

“I haven’t forgotten. You already did last fall when you mentioned it to your friends.”

“I doubt they even remember after all that’s happened now.”

“Then why am I being dissed? Why is my name all over the place as the likely school bomber? Have you read these postings lately?”

“No,” she said coolly, trying to regain her equilibrium. “My computer’s been down for weeks and Dad says we don’t have the money to get it fixed right now.”

Roth slammed his fist into the wall, making her jump. He cursed and scowled. “You were the only one I told!”

“Morgan figured it out,” Liza said angrily. “Why are you blaming me? Maybe she said something to someone.”

Roth looked at her incredulously. “You saying
blind
Morgan posted the blogs? That’s low, Liza.”

Liza squared her chin, backpedaled. “I’m just saying maybe others figured it out like she did.”

Roth shook his head, glared at her in disgust. “Stay away from Morgan, Liza. And when school starts next week, stay far away from me too.”

“Get out of my house,” she hissed, furious at his accusation and attitude.

“I’m gone.” Roth yanked open the door and retreated into the falling snow. Liza slammed the door so hard behind him that the upper window rattled. Heartbroken, she felt like crying.

“Damn you!” Liza screamed. But there was no one to hear her. Her misery crystallized into a searing pain that made her drop to her knees and gag. Her wrath smoldered, burned itself out like a fire without oxygen, and was swallowed into the silence of the house. Roth hated her. He would go to Morgan now and she would take him. Liza was sure of this. School would start and Liza was condemned to see Roth and Morgan together everywhere she turned.

Liza was out of the picture with Roth. What she didn’t know was what she was going to do about it.

The entire Grandville community was invited to tour the new atrium the weekend before classes were to begin. The
students had lost more than two months of class work—three weeks of which would have been Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year breaks. The remaining weeks were to be made up by early June. The school board had voted to forgo spring break, and by extending classes one hour each day, the year could be finished, exams given, and diplomas handed out on time. There was little opposition to the plan. People just wanted the terrible year over.

“Tell me how it looks.” Morgan was with her mother in the crowded atrium, aware on some level that people were staring at them, but determined to ignore stares and whispers and finish the year with her class. She’d been ambivalent for a few days, but in the end knew she wasn’t a quitter regardless of the odds. Blind or not, with or without Trent, she was going to complete high school. She wasn’t going to throw away twelve years of hard work.

“It’s been redesigned,” Paige said. “The staircase is solid. No more cantilevering. That design was left over from the seventies anyway. The area looks contemporary, clean and fresh. Brighter too. One wall is painted royal blue and stretches two stories. The skylight is back, bigger, though.”

“And the wall?” Morgan thought of the place where students had congregated, and where so many lives had been lost.

“Gone. There’s a memorial pedestal with a large bronze plaque. And with, um—” Paige stopped.

“The names of those killed,” Morgan finished matter-of-factly. “What else could they put there?” She held on to her mother’s elbow as people brushed past. She felt the heat of their bodies. “Show me,” she said. “I want to touch his name.”

Morgan smoothed her hands, almost as useful as her eyes after weeks of blindness, over the contours of the memorial. She formed an image of its shape in her mind, found the cool flat surface of the bronze’s slanted front and felt the raised letters one by one. “Mr. Simmons,” she said after a moment. She read off the names, for she had memorized them all by now. “ ‘Trent Caparella’ …” Tears clogged her throat. She’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t cry in public. A broken vow.

“You look good,” Roth whispered into her ear.

She turned toward him, surprised because she hadn’t felt him come alongside of her. “Oh, hi.”

Paige said, “Place looks pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“Brand-new,” Roth said.

“Who’s here?” Morgan asked Roth.

“Media, and tons of kids, parents, some police.”

“Police?”

“Crowd watchers. Guess they don’t want anything to spoil the grand unveiling.”

Morgan heard a bitter undertone in his voice. She knew that he’d been questioned and she felt sorry for him. He’d only helped people. The real bombers were still out there, maybe even here today. For a moment fear tingled up her back.

Roth clasped Morgan’s hand in his. “Can I take over the tour?” he asked her mother.

“Mom? Would you mind?” Morgan asked.

“Fine,” Paige said. “I see the mayor and I want to talk to him.”

Roth’s hand felt warm in hers, and she wished she could see him. Crazy how his presence could light up her day.

“How have you been?”

“All right,” she said. “Going to therapy. Hasn’t helped yet.”

“But you’re returning to school?”

“I am. I’m the president, you know.” She gave a wry smile. “Met with the new principal, Mrs. Mecham, on Friday. She’s nice and knows about tragedy: she lost two sons in the Iraq War.”

They kept walking, and Morgan realized they had left the atrium and were going down a hallway, because the noise grew dimmer. Roth stopped. “Know where you are?”

Morgan turned her head slowly, sniffed the air. “Lockers by the smell of it.”

He laughed. “Very good. You’re standing in front of your locker.”

She reached out, put the flat of her palm on the cold hard metal. Her fingers bounced the combination lock. A new realization dawned. “I—I won’t be able to see to open it.”

“I’m sure they’ll let you lock it any way you want to.
And …” Roth paused, then added, “I’ll be your eyes whenever you want. I mean, if you want me to be.”

Tears threatened her again. What had she been thinking, that she could return to school? She was stupid! Returning totally blind was impossible.

“Hey, hey.” Roth cupped her face in his hands. “You can do this. People will help. I’ll help … your friends … Kelli, all of us will help.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice. There were no guarantees her sight would return, and the line between dependency and helplessness was a balancing act. Morgan needed to distinguish between them if she was going to live inside of darkness, perhaps for a long, long time.

M
rs. Mecham started Monday morning with a rally in the school gym, calling it a “new day” and a “fresh start.” Morgan sat in a chair beside the new principal in the center of the gym. She heard the rustle of feet, the subdued voices of kids in the bleachers. No one was whistling or yelling or calling out to others. This was a somber time and everyone sensed it. Cameras clicked away around them, but the school board had banned television crews from the gym—only digital cameras were allowed. Cell phones had been confiscated for the event. “A private gathering that I won’t let be exploited,” Mrs. Mecham had said.