The Lightning Tree, page 5
I realize I am standing on the branch, my arms raised in front of me.
A broad-shouldered police officer starts to climb up. “Miss, please come down from the tree.” He is already halfway to Jack, maneuvering the tree’s limbs with surprising agility for a man in his forties. He looks up at me and frowns, his voice deep and commanding. “This is a crime scene.”
My skin is still burning.
Flooo-ra.
Fumbling, I reach for another branch, and there’s that octopus again in my stomach, releasing its nauseating tentacles.
I have to get down.
As fast as I can, my hands remembering every crevice in the tree, I follow the jagged lightning scar in the trunk until I am standing on the ground, with the wide trunk between me and the mayhem in our front yard.
Swiping my tears away, I gaze up into the oak’s majestic crown and see the morning light breaking through the leaves. My sister’s voice replays in my mind. Floor-ra. It was so . . . real. As if she was right beside me, sitting in the tree like before her accident.
The police officer crouches next to Jack’s body. “It’s too late,” he shouts down to his colleague on the ground, a thirty-something woman with a black ponytail. “There’s nothing we can do for him.”
The female officer waves to a firefighter who steps up and leans a metal ladder against the trunk. Another police officer, wearing latex gloves and carrying a shoulder bag, makes his way up.
The nausea forces me to bend over as I recall the police officer’s words: It’s too late. I close my eyes and inhale the warm morning air, force it down, fill my lungs with the earthy scent of grass and leaves.
“Miss Reed?”
I look up into the grave face of the broad-shouldered police officer, the one who has just climbed down from the tree.
“Yes.” My voice is so weak, I can barely hear it myself.
“I am Chief of Police Batista.” He flips his notepad open and clicks a ballpoint pen. “I need to ask you a couple of questions, if that’s alright?” He pauses and looks at me, and there’s a familiar concern in his eyes. She is that girl. I realize he has already been briefed by someone about our tragic backstory.
I nod, and a trace of a smile appears in Chief Batista’s eyes.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“I turned seventeen in March.” I notice a small twig stuck in my hair and pull it out, then brush pieces of tree bark from my wrinkled t-shirt and shorts.
Chief Batista scribbles in his notepad, looking tiny in his large hand. “Can you tell me what happened this morning?”
I look for Mom, but I can’t find her anywhere in the commotion.
“I was on my way to the Book Nook to open it up for the day.” Suddenly, I see Carl in the crowd. I am about to call for him, but he has already spotted me. His eyes widen, wandering from me to the lifeless body of Jack, entwined in the oak tree and surrounded by police officers. I wish I could speak to him, tell him everything, but he turns and dashes up our driveway, disappearing behind the hawthorn hedge.
The female officer is putting up yellow tape around the oak tree that says POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS in black block letters. At the foot of the tree, another police officer is taking pictures of the crime scene.
Chief Batista ushers me away. “The Book Nook . . .” he prompts me, flipping open his notepad again. “That is The Wee Reed Book Nook, your mom’s bookshop, right?”
“Yes,” I say. “I help her out during the summer.”
“Chief,” the female officer says. “Crime scene investigators say they’re done in the tree. They didn’t find much.”
“Thanks, Officer Herrera.” Chief Batista motions to the firefighters waiting below the tree. “They can bring him down.”
Chief Batista turns back to me. “What were you doing in the tree?”
I don’t want to look at Jack—at his blood-streaked face, his body trapped among the branches—but I can’t help it. The bruising on his lips and cheek where Carl planted his fist seems even more purple against his pale skin.
“I tried to get him down, but I couldn’t find a rope, or . . . anything. I don’t know. . .” The tingling and burning in my skin is finally starting to subside, and I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold in the morning breeze.
The firefighters work with a handsaw and loppers to cut Jack loose. They shout instructions back and forth as they slowly untangle him, leaves and twigs raining to the ground. When they finally lift Jack out of the tree, one of them carries him like a doll over his shoulder.
I can’t watch anymore as the octopus reaches its tentacles through my insides again.
Chief Batista leans close. “How are you feeling? You alright?”
I nod and he turns the page in his notepad.
“Did you know the deceased?”
He said it. The deceased. “He goes to—” I look down at the ground and shake my head. “I mean, he went to my school, but we didn’t really hang out.”
Chief Batista frowns. “No?”
I shrug. I don’t want to tell him about the invisible wall between me and other people. I’m certain that Chief Batista, in his white-shirt-black-tie assertiveness, would never understand how it feels to be that girl. And I definitely don’t want to tell him what happened last night at the party.
Almost as if he could read my mind, Chief Batista asks, “Where were you last night?”
I feel as though I’m being led into a trap. “At the end-of-year party at the Dunnes’ place.”
Chief Batista clears his throat and jots more notes. “Do you have someone who can confirm this?”
“Yes—” I hesitate. “Everyone at the party.” I don’t say everyone who saw Jack Dunne rip my t-shirt to shreds. I don’t say Carl, who punched him in the face.
Chief Batista scratches his chin, the stubble rasping against his fingers. “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Jack?”
I shake my head. It’s not lying. I know that Carl would never do something like this, not to Jack, not to anyone. Carl with his warm chestnut eyes, his deep dimples, his backpack properly worn on both shoulders. But then I remember the rage in his eyes when he struck Jack down without any hesitation. I start to shiver, the warmth and brightness of the summer morning eclipsed by the cold that seems to seep from my bones.
“Are you interrogating my daughter?” Mom asks, coming up beside me and wrapping me in a red knit blanket. Mom’s hair is still a messy copper halo around her face, but she is now dressed in jeans and her gray Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt. “She’s just a kid. She shouldn’t be interrogated without a parent present.” Mom has that wrinkle between her eyes we used to fear. “I refuse to let her answer any more of your questions.”
Chief Batista bows his head in a sort of stiff nod. “I’m sorry.” For a second he looks like a boy being scolded by his mom, even though he and Mom are probably about the same age. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” He motions to the body of Jack lying on the stretcher. “That poor boy.”
“Well, this is my girl, and if you want to talk to her, you better ask me first.” Mom clutches me tightly, like she is trying to show Chief Batista exactly which girl she is speaking of.
“You!” We all turn to the deep voice. Among the paramedics I recognize Mr. Dunne, shoving an EMT out of his way. He runs toward me, his dark hair a mess, his blue shirt untucked. “I saw the video. I know what you did!”
I pull back, but two police officers are already restraining him. “You and that boy!” he shouts, struggling against the officers.
Behind Mr. Dunne I see Mrs. Dunne leaning over Jack’s still body, her head on his chest and her shoulders shaking. Her ash blond hair is spread out over her son like a shroud. I want to look away, but I can’t.
“I know what—” Mr. Dunne manages to get his hand free from the officer holding him back, and points at me. “You did!”
“Come, honey.” Mom drags me across the driveway and pulls me behind the hawthorn hedge. “Go to the Book Nook. Don’t come back until—”
Mr. Dunne’s booming voice cuts her off. “Where is she going, damn it? Take your hands off me!”
I drop the blanket and run between the fire truck and police cars lining Pine Ridge Road, past the Owens’ house and the curious neighbors streaming up the street. Before I turn the corner to Maple Street, I turn back to see the thin figure of my mother, swimming in her loose sweatshirt, frantically talking to the crowd. The police officers, the Dunnes. She is facing all of them alone.
And then I remember.
I exhale slowly, my heart aching.
She has done all of this before. Sort of. Only that was another day, another kid, a young girl lying motionless under the tree.
14
FAUNA
Flora, Flora.
Do you hear me?
I am here.
I can feel the steel eating into my flesh, the twigs breaking.
“Please, no one else,” I beg the trees. “No more bloodshed. I will take the pain, the jagged teeth cutting me, just no one else, please, please.”
But there is only silence coming through the roots.
15
FLORA
ON MY WAY TO THE BOOK NOOK, I TEXT CARL.
They’ll be looking for you
I keep the phone in my hand, checking for messages every other step. At the end of Maple Street, a white van comes screeching through the intersection, The Philadelphia Examiner written across its side in black calligraphy.
I hear the van come to a stop with a roar, back up, and then a guy’s voice behind me. “Hi, do you know the way to Pine Ridge Road?”
My heart begins to race. I turn and point. “Just follow this street and you’ll see it.”
“Thanks,” he says. The engine of the van rumbles, then revs as it drives away.
I check my phone again. No answer.
I dash across the intersection and continue running under the canopy of trees lining the street. Panting, I force the warm morning air into my lungs, feeling that strange tingling in my lightning marks rise and fall, like a tidal wave of fire. I text Carl again.
They know what happened at
the party
Looking downward, I bump into someone, a middle-aged man in a dark suit holding his phone to his ear. I step back. “Oh, sorry.”
He doesn’t answer, just frowns at me, then shifts his gaze to my scarred arms. A look of recognition cross his face before he hastens around the corner. “It was her,” I hear him say. “Yes, that girl.”
WHEN I REACH the store, I press my shoulder to the emerald door and turn the key. Once inside, I lock the door again. The stranger’s voice echoes in my head—It was her—and then Mr. Dunne’s—I know what you did. Does he think I had something to do with Jack’s death? He must have seen a video of Carl punching Jack. I guess I was in it too, half-dressed, a mess. I can’t help letting out a groan as I sink to the floor behind the counter. I don’t want to think about any of it—Jack in the tree, Chief Batista’s interrogation, how I left Mom in the chaos of our front yard.
My thoughts are interrupted by a soft thud upstairs—a book falling over, or maybe a muffled footstep. I quietly crawl across the floorboards to the bookshelf next to the counter. I reach under it and close my fingers around the smooth handle of the baseball bat we keep hidden for emergencies.
I pull it out slowly, careful not to let it tap against the floor. With my other hand, I reach for the counter and gingerly pull myself up.
I tiptoe to the other end of our small shop, checking behind every shelf with the bat raised in front of me. Then I make my way up the stairs.
One, two, creak. Damn it.
Three steps more and I can see the second floor. Someone is lying on the old floral couch. My heart pounds against my ribs as I tighten my grip on the bat. I take a deep breath. “Who’s there?”
There’s a pause, then, “Flora?”
I exhale and lower the bat.
“Carl? What are you doing here?” I climb the last few stairs. “Why didn’t you answer my messages?”
He ignores my questions and instead lets out a sigh. “Thank God you’re safe.”
I plop down next to him. “How did you get in?”
“The back door.” He smiles, but this time it’s a dimple-less smile that fades quickly. “I picked the lock.”
“You what?”
He shrugs and shakes his head. “It’s not that hard.”
I can’t help staring at him. He knows how to pick locks? “The police are going to look for you, you know.”
He tugs at the collar of his dark blue shirt, like he’s feeling trapped in it. “Yeah, I guess. That’s why I figured I need to lie low for a while.” He slumps with his elbows against the threadbare knees of his jeans. “The last thing I need is the police asking questions.”
I wonder what he means, if he might be referring to something that happened before he was placed in foster care with the Owens.
“But you didn’t do it!” I swallow hard, telling my stupid brain not to think it, but I say it anyway. “Right?”
Carl jumps up. “Of course not!” He moves toward the window, shaking his head. “How could I?” He turns to me. “What was that back there? Who could have done such a thing?”
I stare down at the weapon still in my hands. “It was awful,” I whisper.
Carl gently takes the bat from me and leans it against the couch. “I’m sorry. It must have been a shock . . . finding him like that.”
“I tried to . . .” Tears well up again. “I tried to help him.”
Carl smiles tenderly, revealing a dimple in his cheek. “That’s so you, Flora. Even after what he did to you.”
I look away and let my eyes wander over the uneven rows and piles of books in the crammed bookshelves, not wanting to remember this morning. I feel Carl sit back down next to me. Without saying anything, he reaches to pick a tiny leaf out of my hair, fumbling as he tries to untangle it. I can’t help but smile through the tears at his concentrated gaze, his trembling fingers, determined to free this remnant of the crime scene from my golden strands.
“Thanks for standing up for me,” I whisper, noticing the string of purple bruises along his knuckles. I can’t bring myself to add “against Jack.”
But Carl’s focus is elsewhere. “There!” he says, triumphantly holding the leaf. Then he grows serious. “Flora, I—”
We both flinch at the sound of voices outside. A few seconds later, there is a loud banging on the front door.
I wipe my eyes and check the time on my phone. “Oh crap! It’s way past ten. We should be open.”
“Right,” Carl says, rubbing his temples and giving me a sly smile. “Someone must be desperate for a book.”
I start for the stairs. “Wait. What are you going to do?”
He shrugs. “Can I hang around here for a while . . . just until I have to go to Math Wizards?”
The banging on the door continues, and I hurry to the stairs. “Okay,” I say, “but don’t scare the customers.”
Carl lets out a chuckle and nods toward the bat. “Not unless I have to.”
I shoot him a smirk, then run downstairs. Immediately, I freeze. Mr. Dunne is peering through the glass in the front door. He pounds the door again so hard that the glass rattles. “I need to talk to you,” he bellows. “Open up, damn it!”
My mind races. Should I call the police? No, I need to warn Carl. But Mr. Dunne’s eyes are following my every move. I have no choice but to walk across the shop and unlock the door. The happy jingle of the doorbell seems terribly inappropriate.
“Mr. Dunne,” I say, hoping Carl hears me. “I am so very sorry for your—”
But Mr. Dunne pushes past me. “Where is he?”
“Who?” I ask as he starts darting between the aisles.
He stops and wipes his forehead. “That friend of yours, the boy who assaulted my . . .” He exhales and it sounds like a sob. “My son.” His beige pants are sprinkled with mud stains, and his blue shirt is dark under the armpits.
“Mr. Dunne,” I repeat a bit louder. “Let me say how . . .” But his desperate eyes, his panting, his shaking hands, the red-brown spot on his chest—blood, his son’s blood. I realize in that moment that there’s nothing I can say to ease his pain. “I am so, so, sorry,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper.
Even though he is a head taller than me, his wide eyes and creased brow remind me of a begging child. “Tell your friend that I need to talk to him. Please, I need to know what happened.”
I swallow hard and nod. His grief seems to shift between rage and sorrow right before my eyes.
He suddenly notices the stairs. “What’s up there?”
“Just more books,” I say, trying to sound casual.
Mr. Dunne squints. “Just books, huh?” He walks over to the stairs and peers up. “Can I take a look?”
I open my mouth to say no, to give some excuse about water damage or wet paint, but he is already on his way up.
“Wait!” I blurt out, following him. “It’s pretty messy.”
But he bounds up nonetheless. I expect him to see Carl straightaway, but as I reach the second floor, I see that the space is empty. Did he manage to sneak down the stairs and out the back door?
Mr. Dunne inspects the stuffy, compact room, the bookshelves, even our old floral couch and kitchenette. “More books” is all he says with a sigh before clomping downstairs again.
I am about to follow him, but then I notice the window. I scurry across the room toward the faint breeze. I don’t remember leaving the window open.
The doorbell jingles and on the sidewalk below me I can see Mr. Dunne leave. The bald spot in his dark hair and his wide shoulders don’t seem nearly as intimidating from this vantage point. I feel a surge of pity for him. The way he walks, his head bent, reminds me of Mom the day of the accident. With my forehead pressed against the glass, I watch his slumped figure disappear around the corner.
I push the window closed and turn around. As I scan the empty room, I think, That whopping boy! He comes and goes as he pleases, like he could walk through walls.
