Lost Girls

chapter 13

When I get back to the hotel I open the binder marked WITNESS INTERVIEWS and scribble Helen Arthurs's name at the top of the first page. She is, after all, the first person who'd spoken to me about the case, not to mention the first to provide me with an alternative theory outside of those I'd already come up with. Unfortunately for Thom Tripp, that theory involved a woman who'd been dead for over fifty years rising out of the lake and taking her victims back down with her. Not the sort of thing that meets the credibility threshold of the dimwits of a typical jury, let alone most senior members of the judiciary. Nevertheless, I end up transcribing the whole of Mrs. Arthurs's quaint rural myth in as much detail as I can recall. An hour later I've filled twelve handwritten pages, having thrown in a few supplementary details of my own for the hell of it. When I'm finished, however, I realize the morning's totally shot and I haven't yet performed a minute of useful work for my client.

The list of potential witnesses Goodwin provided me with is composed almost entirely of those who can only support the Crown's case and do no good to my own. Not surprising, given that there's only three people who can speak directly to what happened that Thursday in May: two have disappeared and the other appears to be in the process of losing his mind. So, more to avoid continuing the labored review of documentary evidence than for any other reason, I start to call some of the victims' school friends to see if I can arrange an interview.

The first four numbers yield only startled mothers explaining that their kids are in school, each of them demanding, ''Who is this?'' I take to hanging up before responding. And I'm about to give up altogether when I reach Laird Johanssen, who doesn't sound much surprised to hear from me at all.

''Taking the day off from school, Laird? All your friends are in class.''

''Half days. I'm in the gifted program. Only have to show up in the mornings.'' Then, matter-of-factly, ''And I don't have any friends.''

We arrange to meet at the Make 'n' Bake doughnut shop near the school. A concrete-and-glass cube on the corner with a yellow fluorescent light inside so powerful that it glows from two full blocks away even during the day. Outside, beside the newspaper boxes and orange waste bin buzzing with wasps, a half-dozen girls pull their heads back from a whispering circle to watch my approach. Two pierced nostrils, four bleach jobs, all wearing lipstick the color of a fading bruise. I pass them and reach the door, pull back against the spring that holds it closed, and in this sluggish imbalance between inside and out I hear one of them whisper, Fucking scum.

I should turn and say something in response, and nearly do, but the door is now fully open before me and I step inside without a glance back. Still, I know they stay there and watch me squint inside against the glare of orange plastic tables and stainless-steel coffee machines until I find a seat next to the hallway to the toilets. Watch me through the glass wall, whispering together a plan.

Inside, the place is crawling with other kids skipping class in order to pursue more fruitful enterprises such as smoking and constructing sentences that repeat the word fuckin' as often as possible. I recognize Laird immediately, though, moving through them to where I sit, bringing with him his mug and honey cruller cradled in a sheet of waxed paper. I know it's him although he wears the same pea-green army jacket favored by his colleagues, his hair the same greasy medium-length disaster. But there are certain clues that give him away: oversize head, painful cluster of pimples at the top of each cheek, and glasses so heavy, they slide down to the edge of his nose despite the best efforts of their wearer, who stabs his middle finger at their bridge with a maddening frequency. It appears that old Laird wasn't kidding about not having any friends, for as he approaches my table he is completely unacknowledged by the other chain-smoking snifflers.

''Laird?''

''The one and only.''

''Thanks for agreeing to meet,'' I say, and slide a fivedollar bill over the table at him. He looks at it a moment before stuffing it in the breast pocket of his jacket originally designed for carrying grenades.

''Nothing much better to do,'' he says.

I watch him count to four while pouring a broad stream of sugar into his coffee.

''I understand that you were in the Literary Club with Krystal and Ashley,'' I start, and measure a half teaspoon of sugar into my own.

''In a way, yeah. I mean, we were the Literary Club. Just the three of us. And Mr. Tripp. But I never really went after the first few meetings, so it was more just them.''

''Why'd you stop going?''

''I dunno. It was boring, I guess. And they were sort of into it, talking about books, the characters they liked most, and all the metaphors and symbols. You know? I couldn't care less about that poetry shit.''

''So why'd you join?''

''To hang out with Ashley and Krystal.''

''You were friends with them?''

''I told you, man, I'm not friends with anybody. But they were okay. They were a lot smarter than most, and definitely smarter than any of the other hot girls at school. But nobody was really friends with Ashley and Krystal except Ashley and Krystal, you know what I mean?''

''So they were pretty close, then?''

''Like sisters, man. Better than sisters. Sisters without bitching over who took the last tampon or whatever.''

I glance over Laird's shoulder and see the circle of girls still there outside the glass, guessing at my words.

''What about Tripp? Were they close with him?''

''Depends on what you mean. They'd talk to him, yeah, but that's about it. They were pretty much the only ones who would talk to him after he got all zombied out or whatever. But they weren't in love with the guy or anything.''

''You think he was in love with them?''

''He thought they were pretty cool, I guess. I mean, they were the only members of his little club, which was the one thing he seemed to care about. But if you mean a sex-love sort of thing, I have no idea. But I wouldn't blame him if he did.''

Slurps at the coffee in front of him and pours more sugar into what remains.

''Do you know if Tripp ever took them to Lake St. Christopher before the day they disappeared?''

''Doubt it.''

''Why?''

''Doubt they'd want to. Everybody's scared shitless of the place, man. Especially girls.''

''Why would they be scared?''

''Because they knew.''

Over Laird's shoulder a kid throws a match into an ashtray piled high with crumpled napkins and in a second it's sending up high spits of flame. But the girls outside the door don't move their eyes away from where they're set.

''I'm sorry. What did they know?''

''That there was some bad shit that went on up there a long time ago--like history, this old babe who eats kids or something--and now there's all kinds of stories. Everybody believes at least one of them.''

''Yeah? Which one do you believe?''

''I believe them all, man.''

Laird smiles and it reshapes his face in a way that makes me hope he never finds anything amusing ever again.

''So, you're saying that you think Ashley and Krystal would never volunteer to go up there?''

''Not unless they were with fourteen other people all stoned on some shit that made you totally fucking fearless, I'd say no.''

I look past Laird again to see the girls outside now pulling closer together, a single body blocking the way out.

''Fine. New question. Did you ever hear Ashley and Krystal talk about running away?''

''No. Not that they'd tell me.''

''What about Tripp? Did he ever say anything to you about them?''

''Not really. My brother had him for English like three years ago, and he was supposed to be really into all the great classics of literature and teaching and shit. But that was before. By the time we got him he was just walking around half asleep or something. So no, I wouldn't say he was much of a conversationalist.''

''Did you ever see Tripp and the girls together with someone else? When he'd drive them home after Literary Club meetings, for example. Was there ever a fourth person?''

''Not that I saw. Just those three, him up front driving and the two girls in the back. That was the way they always went. I thought maybe that's because he didn't want anyone to think he was trying anything creepy, you know. But maybe not. More likely they just wanted to sit together in the back.''

Looking at me through the glass. Eyes held open and so black with mascara they appear as a line of empty sockets poured full with oil.

''You okay, man?'' Laird asks, his own eyes magnified and squinting into mine.

''Fine and dandy.''

Fine and dandy?

''You just look a little--''

''It's all the smoke.''

''Uh-huh.''

''So. Were they popular?'' I ask, forcing myself to focus on Laird alone.

''Oh, yeah. Guys wanted them and girls wanted to be like them. But I don't think Ashley or Krystal gave a shit one way or the other. Still, you should've seen when they called an assembly in the gym at the beginning of term and the principal got up and told everyone that the school was undergoing a mourning process--man, the whole place broke down. I've never seen so much hugging and crying and snot in one place. Mostly the girls, right, all of them pretending that they were best friends with Krystal or Ashley. It even got kind of competitive.''

''How do you mean?''

''Like everyone's going around with these just-add-water personal memories, like 'Krystal told me this big secret once' or 'Ashley said me and her would be best friends forever' and other crap like that. For the first fifteen minutes everyone was sad, and then they all had to be the most sad of all. It got so bad they brought in like half a dozen shrinks to calm everybody down. Guys, too, and some of the teachers even. Everybody saying how much they knew Tripp was the type, saw it coming a mile away, somebody should have done something. All of it such shit.''

''Thanks, Laird. I'll leave you to your doughnut.''

I tuck my notepad back into my case and pull my legs out from under the table to leave, but the kid raises his hand for me to wait.

''I brought this along,'' he says. From his backpack on the floor he pulls out a crumpled folder and lays it on the table. Then he sticks his hand in and slides the bundled contents halfway out: a collection of handwritten notes with either ASHLEY or KRYSTAL printed at the top, clippings from the school paper with the names of the girls highlighted, photographs of them talking together in front of an open classroom door or kicking a soccer ball between them at the front of two lines of other girls in lime-green gym shorts, all taken with instant, develops-before-your-eyes film.

''I thought you might want to use this.''

''What is it?''

''I dunno. A collection of souvenirs, I guess. It's all about them. I started out collecting things separately, one for Krystal and one for Ashley, but it didn't work out because they were like a team really, not individual people. You know how some girls can be like that?''

''You collected this stuff yourself just on these two?''

''No, man. That would be weird.'' He shakes his head, and the glasses slip down to the very precipice of his nose. ''I keep a file on all the hot girls.''

I push the papers back into the folder, the barren light of the doughnut shop too garish for their inspection. Or maybe it's only that I don't want the girls at the window to see me lingering here with the school nerd and flipping through his masturbatory archives.

''Can I keep it?'' I ask, already tucking the folder into my bag. At the same time turning to look behind me down the hall. Yes. A back door.

''Sure, man, it's yours. I don't have any use for it anymore,'' Laird says, and throws the last nugget of cruller down his throat. ''I mean they're both dead and shit now, right?''