Killing Season Page 7

“Gretchen.” A pause. “Thanks for asking.”

  “I’m sorry she died. That really sucks.”

  “Right back at you, Vicks.”

  Chapter 8

  For the next few weeks, Ro avoided him. Disappointing but not unexpected. Often people told him stuff, to express empathy at first, but then they started talking about themselves. Afterward, they usually realized they’d said too much and would shut down. Ben was used to it, but with Ro, it felt like betrayal for the second time.

  He had wanted her to leave him alone. He had gotten his wish.

  As fate would have it, he saw way more of Griffen than of Ro. He and Haley and Lilly had become this tight little triad. The kids hung out all the time. They spent way more time sparring than getting along, but that was sexual tension. Despite what Lilly had said, Ben really couldn’t tell which one Griffen liked better. At present, he seemed to be basking in the dual female attention.

  The days became dull: a routine hour after hour even though the classes differed. He didn’t mind TA-ing because Lowen usually let him go early—sometimes he could skip the class altogether. One day, five minutes before calculus was due to start, Lowen motioned Ben over with a crooked finger. “Go to the supply cabinet. I need the Boswell instruction books, twenty of them. While you’re there, get me some paper and twenty calculators.” He handed him a cloth bag and a key. “You’ll need these.”

  “Sure.”

  Down the hall, a right turn, and over to the supply room. He inserted the key in the lock and opened the door while turning on the lights. It took him a second to process what was going on. A figure thrusting and grunting. The pants puddled at his ankles. A pair of legs clasped around his waist.

  Ben quickly shut the door, leaned against the wall, and started panting. He knew instantly who it was because of his size and muscle. A minute later the girl came out fully clothed, clutching her coat to her breast. Her dark hair was a mess. They eyed each other for only the briefest moment.

  Lisa Holloway.

  It was an image that Ben didn’t want in his head, but knowing it wasn’t Ro made it a little better. He caught his breath, knocked, and then went into the supply room. JD had his pants back up.

  “Hey, Vicks.”

  “JD.” He started going down the list of supplies while sneaking in a quick glance. For once, JD looked sheepish.

  “Hey,” JD said again. “Look, Vicks, it isn’t what you think.”

  “No?” Silence. “Look, JD, if you want to be a jackass, that’s your business.”

  “It’s just not what you think,” he repeated.

  “It is what I think, but it’s none of my business.” Ben reached for some elementary calculators and put them in the canvas bag.

  “She came on to me. Swear to God, she cornered me and pushed me in the closet. Stuck her hand in my pants—”

  “Not my business.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Tell her to stop?”

  Yes, you shit. That’s what you were supposed to do. “It’s not my business, JD.”

  “I don’t make a habit of doing things like this.” His voice was desperate. “I really like Ro. I’d feel bad if . . . you know.”

  Ben held up a hand. “Stop begging, okay. I wouldn’t rat you out. You know me better than that.”

  “I’m not begging.” But of course he was. “I’m just explaining.”

  “Fine. You’re explaining. Gotta go.”

  “She’s not all that you know . . . Ro isn’t.”

  “Don’t know her that well to say yea or nay.” Ben shrugged. “Maybe she is all that, and you’re not.”

  He left the closet with two armfuls’ worth of supplies. He wasn’t even angry. Had he and Ro been talking, carried on where they left off a few weeks ago, he might have hinted at something. But she hadn’t given him more than a few passing words. As tempting as it was, it felt dishonest to blow JD’s cover. He wasn’t going to sneak into her life through the back door. She had to want it, and since that wasn’t happening, she had made the decision for him.

  Still, he felt bad for Ro. And in a perverted way, he also felt bad for JD. He wasn’t a bad soul. He was only eighteen. He was just another horny guy at Remez High. No one knew who the fuck they were and what the fuck they were doing. High school was purgatory until they all earned enough indulgences to reach the vaunted era of independence.

  A number of seniors were applying for early admission to colleges and universities. Ben was not among them, so he didn’t have the November 1 application deadline hanging over his head. Still, the college counselor, Tom Gomez, had scheduled an appointment with him mid-October at eleven in the morning. It was a waste of time, but it was school policy and it was easier to go with the plan than to question it.

  The counselor’s office was a small room on the second floor of the administration building. There were multiple college flags pinned on the back wall along with a map of the U.S. When Ben came in, Gomez pointed to the chair opposite his desk. The man was in his fifties, short and stocky, with gray hair, high cheekbones, and a wide mouth. Like Ben, Gomez had come from solid New Mexico stock. Their families were friends but not close friends. Talking to him was like talking to an out-of-town uncle: the relationship was a little closer than normal but not close enough to feel entirely comfortable.

  “How are you?” Gomez asked.

  “Fine.”

  “The folks?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Good to hear. We missed you at Nambe feast day.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. School and all.”

  “You? Worried about school?”

  Ben gave him a sheepish smile. “Not really.”

  “Yeah, not really. Okay. What schools are you considering?” When Ben handed him a slip of paper, Gomez read the list. He said, “This is it? St. John’s and UNM?”

  “They’re good schools.”

  “They are very good schools. But why are you limiting yourself? You have the entire world at your feet.”

  Ben looked at the floor. “All I see is gray tile.”

  “You can deflect the obvious with humor, but I’ve known you too long to be distracted. With your scores and your grades and your recommendations and where you live, you could walk into any school you want. Why isn’t MIT on the list? Or Caltech? Or Chicago? Or even Harvard?”

  “I’m not interested, Mr. Gomez.”

  “Since when have you started calling me ‘Mr. Gomez’?”

  “Just trying to be respectful.”

  “You’re trying to create distance between us.”

  Ben tried another tactic. “My scores were not perfect.”

  “Stop nitpicking, Ben. You know they’re exceptional. You know you’re exceptional.”

  “With schools like the Ivies, you have to have four years of a foreign language.”

  “Who told you this nonsense?” Gomez paused. “Or are you making it up so you don’t have to put yourself out there?”

  “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

  “You’ve heard incorrectly.” Gomez gave him a reproving look. “I repeat. With your grades, your scores, your recommendations, and where you live, you can go anywhere—especially considering your background.”

  “What about my background?”

  Gomez stalled. Then he said, “I just meant that you’ve gone through a lot. A lot of guys would have cracked under the circumstances.”

  Immediately Ben felt anger boil in his chest. “So . . . like I should write on top of my application in red: ‘this guy has a dead sister’?”

  “Ben—”

  “Or do you mean the essay? To whom it may concern: take me as a pity case because my sister was murdered and I’m still alive and functioning.”

  “Ben—”

  He got up. “I think we’re done.” He bolted out of the office, filled with fury, his heart beating through his chest. Leaning against his locker, fist clenched, he tried to catch his breath. He did manage to get the c
ombination on the first try. When the door opened, his books came tumbling out. He banged the locker next to his, and then bent down to pick up the books. When he stood up again, he hit his head on the open door. “Fuck!”

  Ro was there. “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, hello, stranger, fancy meeting you here.”

  “Stop it. What’s bothering you?”

  “I just got out of a counseling session with Gomez.”

  “He wants you to apply to other schools.”

  “How did you know?”

  “’Cause I know where you’re applying and you’re selling yourself short. If I had your scores, I’d be wearing crimson as we speak.”

  “How do you know my scores?”

  “Haley told me.”

  “How the hell does she know?”

  “Perhaps you told your family. Perhaps they discuss you when you’re not around. Perhaps she overheard. Whatever the reason is, you’re still selling yourself short.”

  “That isn’t what made me mad.”

  “Okay. What made you mad?”

  “He implied that I should like . . . write an essay about me and what I’ve gone through . . . meaning that I should exploit my sister’s death. Like some ridiculous college essay is worth stooping so low. God, can you believe that idiot?”

  Ro stared at him, then shook her head. “You know the trouble with you, Vicks? You don’t live in the real world.” She turned tail and stalked off.

  “Wait! What did I . . . shit!” He slammed his locker door shut. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  “Ben?”

  He whirled around. Lilly had a slightly stunned look on her face. Her cheeks were red. “You dropped your book.”

  He looked at the lit book in her arms. “Right . . . thanks.”

  She backed away, and then waved from a safe distance.

  He went looking around for Ro. She was at her locker, wiping her eyes with her shirtsleeve.

  “Okay,” he said. “What’d I do wrong this time?”

  “Nothing.”

  JD had suddenly materialized. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” she repeated. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Is it something I did?” JD asked.

  Ro slammed her locker. “You know I can be sad without it having anything to do with you.”

  “Of course.” JD turned to Ben. “I’ve got it from here, Vicks.”

  Ro grabbed Ben’s arm. “He doesn’t have to leave just because you say so, okay. You’re not the center of the universe.”

  “If I’m not, I should be,” JD said. Ro rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. He put his arm around her. “You shouldn’t ever have to cry. You’re the hottest-looking girl in the entire school. Probably the hottest girl in the entire state . . . maybe even the hottest girl ever. And you just happen to have the hottest boyfriend ever. What’s there to cry about?” He turned to Ben. “Am I right about this?”

  Ben said, “I would contest a lot of what you’re saying, but not her hotness quotient.”

  “He’s complicated.” JD pointed to himself. “I’m not. Sometimes simple is better, right?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Right?”

  “Sometimes being alone is even better than simple.” She walked away.

  When she was gone, JD said, “What the fuck just happened?”

  “She’s pissed at me. It might have to do with college essays but I’m not sure. I’m kinda dumb when it comes to girls.”

  “Let me tell you something, Vicks. That ain’t ever gonna change.” JD shook his head. “You got shit on me, so you don’t have to answer this. But what . . . exactly is your relationship with her?”

  “I think we’re friends . . . loosely defined.”

  “Friends?”

  “Loosely defined.”

  “Awesome.” JD slapped his back none too lightly. His voice dripped sarcasm. “Benjamin Vicksburg has finally made a friend.”

  Chapter 9

  The two boys were nervous. As Ro looked in her rearview mirror, she saw that they weren’t talking much, but they were punching each other a lot. Even though Griff had gone out with Haley and Lilly tons of times, Ezra’s presence made it an official double date. The girls were no longer friends, they were love interests.

  Ezra Rael was half Hispanic, half Jewish. He seemed like a nice kid, although Ro had only met him a few times. She was happy that Griff was making friends with a boy. It showed he was integrating and probably doing a better job at it than she was—taking his time to pick the right people: kids whom Griff liked, not just those who’d serve him well.

  She grew tense as she approached Vicks’s house. Like most of the homes in the area, it was fashioned from brown adobe, a sprawling one-story home fronted by a free-form adobe wall, short piñon pines, and silvery Russian olives. It sat on undulating land in the midst of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The one thing this state had was lots and lots of land. That kind of space was something that Ro wasn’t used to. Sometimes she found it liberating. Most of the time the vast expanse scared her as if the bogeyman was just waiting to come out from behind a rock. She hadn’t had a conversation with Ben in a very long time. If he was upset about it, he hadn’t said anything. But she was attuned to nuances. They both knew what was going on and it made her feel small.

  When she pulled over, Griff said, “Thanks for the ride.”

  “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  Griffen sneered. “Seriously?”

  “Just gonna give Vicks a quick hello.”

  Griffen sighed. “Please disappear quickly, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  They walked up the pathway and Griffen rang the bell. The two little girls came out. Although their outfits were the standard uniform of jeans and a T, both of them had done up their hair and had put on makeup. Ro would have liked to snap a picture, but it would totally embarrass her little brother.

  Haley said, “We’ve got a little time before the show starts. Wanna come in?”

  The two boys nodded like bobbleheads. Haley could have suggested anything and they would have agreed. Ben’s mother came out. She was a pretty woman with hair streaked with silver. She had wonderful smooth skin and full lips. Her eyes were chestnut gold, like Haley’s and Ben’s. And like Ro’s own mother’s eyes, Mrs. Vicksburg’s showed eternal sadness.

  She said, “Thank you for bringing them over. I’ll drop them back off after the movie.”

  “Only if it’s convenient,” Ro said. “Griffen can call me.”

  “No, no. I’m happy to do it.”

  An awkward silence. “I’m Dorothy Majors, by the way.” Ro held out her hand. “I’m in Vicks . . . Ben . . . I’m in Ben’s class. Is he here? I thought I might say hello.”

  Mrs. V looked surprised. “He’s in his room.” Another silence. “Come in.”

  Ro followed her into a neat living room, unadorned except for family pictures and a piece of pottery here and there in a shelving unit. There was a leather couch, a couple of kilim chairs, and a sofa table with a few paperbacks. In the corner was a small beehive fireplace, common to this area, called a kiva. The floors were oak and the ceiling was made up of latilla strips vertically and big, whole log beams called vigas that ran horizontally. New Mexico had its own architecture and architectural terms. Ro had had to learn an entire new vocabulary once she got here.

  There were four rooms off a small hallway. Two doors were open—the master bedroom and Haley’s room. Two doors were shut. The mother knocked on one of those.

  Ben’s voice. “Busy.”

  The mother said, “You’ve got a visitor.”

  They both heard shuffling. Ben opened the door and peeked his head out. When he saw Ro, his eyes widened.

  Ro said, “I just dropped Griffen and Ezra Rael off. Apparently, they are having an afternoon with Haley and Lilly.” Still no response. She said, “I just thought I’d say hi.”

  Ben’s eyes shifted between Ro and his mother. He said, “Hi.” />
  There was an electric stare between them. His hair—unruly at times—was a nest of interlocking waves and curls. She thought he looked as though he just rolled out of bed, except the eyes were on hyperalert. Sometimes the color morphed from gold to muddy green, especially when he was angry. Ben’s complexion darkened and Ro knew she was blushing because she was hot. The mom was still appraising them, her eyes moving back and forth between their faces.

  Haley called out, “Mom?”

  The sound broke the trance. The mom said, “I’d better see what she wants.”

  As soon as she left, Ro butted her way inside, past Ben, before he could stop her. She had a wide smile on her face. “What are you doing so secretly, Vicks? Watching porn—”

  Her mouth dropped open and her eyes became saucers. She put her hand to her lips as she looked around the room in astonished silence.

  It seemed like every square inch was covered in paper: on the bed, on his desk, on the floor, on top of his dressers. Stacks and stacks of files, dossiers, folders, reports—some of them printed text, but there were others with pictures . . . revolting pictures.

  Murder cases—at least fifty of them. Glancing at the pages Ro saw young girls who had been slaughtered, shot, sliced, burned, trussed, and tortured. The first picture that caught her eye was of a blonde who appeared to have been scalped. All of them were graphic . . . explicit in their violence. Up close and personal.

  She looked down, then looked around again—like witnessing an accident, she couldn’t stop staring. Along with the pictures were horrendous words—“rape,” “sodomy,” “sexual mutilation.” It took all her strength not to upchuck her breakfast.

  She knew she was breathing rapidly. Her head felt light.

  Focus.

  Her eyes found the sole exception to this house of horrors. There was a corkboard above Ben’s desk and on it was a collage of photographs of the same girl: gold eyes, dark hair, olive complexion, and a sunny smile. Her stare engaged from any point in the room, and maybe that was the point. The happy pictures were in stark contrast to everything else. The living and the dead . . . or maybe it was the dead and the dead. Whatever it was, it made her nauseated.