The Mass, page 20
I’ve never been inside his house, but with Maya by my side, I’m not as nervous to knock, talk, or investigate. I am surprised to get a whiff of coconut when the door opens. It smells like a Yankee Candle store inside.
“Daniel, I’m glad you came back,” Colebrook says with a warm smile. Then he notices Maya. “And who is this?” His eyebrows arch.
“This is Maya, my girlfriend,” I say, wrapping my arm around her waist.
“Are you from around here, Maya?” Colebrook asks.
“I’m from Fantasy Land,” Maya says.
Colebrook doesn’t laugh. He smirks and focuses his attention back on me. “I thought it would just be you coming over. I don’t feel comfortable having a stranger listen in on such personal matters.”
“Maya can hang out in a separate room if that would be better.”
“I’m not all that familiar with the town yet,” Maya adds. “So far, everyone has been really nice and welcoming.” Minus Anna.
Colebrook finally smiles at her. “Of course, you can come in. I just made some lemonade.” Colebrook drinks lemonade? It seems like a strange choice for a man who can outlift the whole town. But who am I to generalize?
We follow him inside. His house is also a rambler, probably built in the seventies but completely updated. He has stainless steel appliances throughout the kitchen, polished hardwood floors, exotic lighting fixtures, and a giant fish tank in the middle of his dining room. He pours Maya a glass of lemonade and offers her a chair, though I’m sure the living room leather sofa would be more comfortable.
“We’ll talk downstairs, Daniel,” Colebrook says. “Maya, if you need to use the restroom, there’s one just down this hall. We shouldn’t be too long.”
Maya waves her phone. “I’ve got plenty of YouTube videos to watch.”
I figured the coach would suggest another room nearby, but if he wants the utmost privacy, the basement is the best choice. The coconut aroma follows us down the stairs; it must be the house fragrance.
Colebrook hasn’t gotten around to updating the basement. Like ours, the walls are wooden panels, the carpet is old and worn, and all the light switches are yellow. But it’s not like he uses the space for any company. Dozens of filing boxes circle a wooden desk and chair. The lone window is covered by a black curtain. It’s a tad creepy, but I don’t think he’s keeping any bodies around. He’s just your average hoarder.
“Take a seat, son,” Colebrook says, pointing to the swivel chair.
“I’m fine standing.”
“Very well.” Colebrook opens up one of the boxes and pulls out a manila folder. “What I’m about to tell you has to be kept between you and me. It’s not because I’m trying to withhold information from the police or community. It’s because I’m trying to respect Wesley’s wishes.”
“His wishes?” Why would he be concerned with a murderer’s wishes?
Colebrook opens the folder to reveal a photo. It’s the junior varsity team celebrating a win. Wesley’s red hair is quite visible. He looks happy, healthy, and proud. He has his arms around two other teammates.
“What do you see?” Colebrook asks, handing me the photo to study more closely.
“A team celebrating their win?”
“Look at Wesley’s eyes. Who is he looking at?”
“At the guy next to him?”
“His name was Matthew Sanders. He moved to California after playing a year on JV. And sadly, he died a few months ago. Suicide.”
“What does this have to do with Wesley?”
“Can’t you see it in his eyes?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking me to see.” I hand him back the photo. “Everyone in the picture looks happy.”
Colebrook returns the photo to its envelope and box. “I lied when I said I never spoke to Wesley. I spoke with him once. He came to me one day after practice, wanting to know how he could improve his game to make varsity the next school year. We talked openly for a while. The boy never had a father growing up, so he needed someone to confide in. Someone he could trust with an important secret.”
“Which was?”
Colebrook sighs. “You can’t tell anyone. Wesley made me promise to keep this information private. He was ashamed and yearning to figure out a way to solve his problem. But it was destroying him.”
“How does this connect to Matthew Sanders?”
“Wesley confessed he had romantic feelings for his teammate, Matthew. But he knew there was nothing he could do about it, considering how conservative the town is. His teammates would never accept a homosexual on their team.”
That’s not true. “You don’t know that. I don’t think any of the guys I’ve ever played with would be that prejudiced. Is that what you told Wesley? That he would be outcasted if he came out?”
“No, of course not. I listened to Wesley and encouraged him to stay focused on the game. It was his choice to quit. Which was a terrible choice. It tormented him even more, being separated from Matthew. And then after hearing of Matthew’s passing, it could have contributed to the shooting.”
So Wesley murdered the team out of grief? That doesn’t make sense. I’d rather go with the video games and bullying analogy.
“Did you ever speak to Wesley after he quit?” I ask instead.
“Not directly. He wrote me a letter requesting that I never speak to him again and to refrain from ever telling anyone what he confided in me. Even though what he did to our town is unforgivable, I’ve kept my word until now.”
“You don’t think his mother should know? Or his old teammates who bullied him for quitting? If they knew how much pain he was in…” I can’t understand how Colebrook thinks it was okay to keep Wesley’s secret when it clearly caused Wesley continual damage. Isn’t there a rule that if a child’s secret harms them, the adult has a legal obligation to tell someone?
Colebrook clears his throat with a loud cough. “Daniel, I’m sensing some hostility. Now I told you the truth. In return, I ask that you respect my wish and Wesley’s wish for privacy.”
“But Wesley is dead. And the whole town thinks his soul is damned anyway, so what’s the harm in letting them know now? At least let his mother know so she can stop being blamed for what happened.”
“It’s not that simple, Daniel.”
It’s simple for him. He’s protecting his ass. If he reveals information now, he’d be scrutinized and face possible legal consequences for withholding details from the investigation and the school. He had a moral duty to protect his athletes. And it’s obvious he failed Wesley.
But more importantly, what is my moral duty? Do I keep the secret to protect Colebrook? Or do I risk the repercussions if I reveal it? Colebrook could deny what he said. That I made the whole thing up. And really, it’s his word against mine. I didn’t think to record the conversation.
My phone vibrates inside my pocket. It’s Maya texting me.
Maya: your coach is gay
What?
“Is something wrong, Daniel?” Colebrook asks.
The life drains from my face, but I make a quick comeback. “My, uh, dad was just checking in on me. We just got this new dog, and she’s very needy. She needs to be walked a lot, or she goes nuts.”
“Hence why I’ve never had any pet but a fish all my life. I couldn’t stand having to clean up after an animal’s drool.”
“Yeah…”
“Daniel, I know you need to leave, but can we come to an agreement? Don’t tell anyone that poor Wesley was gay. Just think about what that would do to this town. And how it would open more prejudice against homosexuals. Do we really want that?”
“I won’t tell anyone.” But I definitely won’t keep my mouth shut about Maya’s comment. Just what the hell is she doing up there?
“Do you feel a sense of peace knowing the truth about him?”
“I just wish someone could have done something for him.”
Like you, Colebrook!
“Some people just can’t be helped.”
I nod my head and start moving toward the stairs. If I leave right now, this is the last time I’ll ever speak to Colebrook, mainly because of how disappointed I am. So if anything needs to be said, I need to say it now.
“Just one more question,” I say. “You promised to keep Wesley’s secret?”
“Yes.”
“And he knew that you kept it all these years?”
“I would think so.”
“Then why did he shoot at you first?”
Colebrook’s deadpan face wrings the moisture right out of my mouth. Suddenly, the basement feels too crowded, hot, dusty, and downright unsafe. I find myself backing away, almost like I might sprint up the stairs, grab Maya, and never look back. But I can’t run away from this. There is some truth in what Colebrook told me. But it’s twisted and morphed into something else. Something that protects Colebrook and vilifies Wesley.
Is that what I’m searching for? A way to make Wesley a victim instead of a murderer? Would that make the loss of my team easier to bear? Would I move on in peace, knowing it wasn’t my kick that triggered Wesley but something from his days on the field?
“You’ve asked enough questions,” Colebrook says, all emotions set aside. “I don’t want you coming around here anymore.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“I don’t want you asking anyone else these questions either. You need to let the past go and move on with your life. You owe it to your teammates. You should focus on your future at Notre Dame. Not on murderers like Wesley.”
“I owe my teammates the truth.”
“You just got the truth, and you’re the only teammate left. That should suffice.”
“Should it?”
“Worry about your future, Daniel. And maybe keep an eye on that girlfriend of yours. I’d hate for anything to happen to her.”
“Is that a threat?”
Colebrook chuckles. “Of course not. She just seems like a wild little thing. No wonder you don’t want to leave her all alone.”
But leaving her alone this time did me some good should her text message merit some truth.
Maya
I wasn’t going to stay in that kitchen forever. I did have to use the restroom shortly after Daniel and Mr. Clean went downstairs. Too much orange juice from the cafe. But I couldn’t help taking a peek inside the coach’s bedroom. Silk sheets, memory foam pillows, polished furniture, and the most bizarre artwork covering the walls. It didn’t scream football coach. More like an eccentric theatre professor.
I only searched through a few of his dresser drawers. Typical men’s clothing, all folded nice and neat, categorized by color. But digging a little deeper, between those ankle-high socks, I found the secrets. Immediately, I snapped a picture of my findings, put everything back, and returned to the kitchen to dump my overly sweetened lemonade and text Daniel.
Now I’m wondering if I made the right choice.
He doesn’t come upstairs for another five minutes, but I wait by the front door, ready to leave. The coach fast on his heels, Daniel gives me a look that means don’t say anything, just get out. So I follow him out the door. We don’t speak until we’re back in the Mustang and away from Colebrook’s house.
“Did you find something?” Daniel asks.
I take a deep breath. “He has a brown jewelry box in his sock drawer. And there are pictures inside.”
“Of?”
“You’re not going to like this.” I show him my phone.
Daniel nearly swerves off the road. He hits the brakes and grabs the phone to take a safer look.
“These are from the locker room,” Daniel says. “He ... oh my God.” His eyes grow wide. Shallow breaths. Panicked voice. Will he lose it this time?
“I’m sorry.”
“Where ... where did you find these again?”
“In his sock drawer.”
“And you’re sure you put everything back the way you found it?”
“Yeah, I—”
“God, Maya, you told me he was gay in your text. Not that he’s a pedophile!”
“I didn’t want to freak you out. I just wanted to get you out of there. Besides, I thought it was obvious he was gay from the moment we walked in the door. Single, decent-looking guy, making lemonade and color-coding his drawers? Plus, he seemed threatened by me. It’s like he wanted you all to himself. And now we know why.”
Daniel rubs his forehead as though pined with a sudden headache. “This is so ... fucked up.”
“Look, we have baggage on the guy now. This is a huge lead for us.”
Daniel shakes his head. “He told me Wesley was gay. And that Wesley quit football because he was too afraid to come out. Fuck!” He bangs his fists against the dashboard. “I’m not sure if I should believe anything Colebrook told me.”
“He had to cover up for something.”
“He knew I wouldn’t stop searching for the truth. He thought whatever he said would satisfy my curiosity. But it doesn’t. Not with this added in.” He hands me back my phone. “If Colebrook finds out you were in his bedroom, I don’t know what he’ll do, but it won’t be good.”
“Well, no shit. If this gets out, he risks losing his job, his reputation. He’d go to prison.”
“Were there any pictures of Wesley in there?”
“There were like 30 pictures total. I only took five shots. I figured that was enough.”
“It’s hard to tell who is who in the photos. But we could look up jersey numbers. We could figure something out.”
“Or we could just hand it over to the police.” Wouldn’t that make the most sense?
“But then you’ll have to admit you snuck into his bedroom.”
“Big fucking deal! He’ll have to admit he took pictures of naked underage boys without their permission. Daniel, do you realize there could be photos of you in there? Do you want Colebrook to get away with this?”
“I don’t want to risk anything happening to us, especially you. Let’s just say if we go to the police, and they decide to arrest Colebrook, and Colebrook runs, don’t you think he’d come after us first?”
“If you are that scared of one person—”
“It only took one person to kill all nineteen of my friends!”
With an untamed roar, Daniel beats his hands against the steering wheel. One ... two... I cease counting after ten. Tears spill down his face. He turns away from me. I wish he wouldn’t. He shouldn’t feel ashamed to cry in front of me. But at least he’s letting some of his pain out.
I didn’t cry or scream when I found out my femur was shattered, and I had two choices: amputation or the rod. I didn’t cry or scream when Grams told me my parents and Connor were dead. I just asked for more Vicodin. Then it was alcohol. Weed. Sex. Loud music and good times. All cover-ups. A way to hide.
Is it too late to cry?
“We just need time,” Daniel says, pulling me from my thoughts. He sounds much calmer. He’s no longer shouting. “We need time to sort through everything.” He wipes his face on his sleeve. “Figure out facts from lies. And then we’ll go to the police.”
I put my hand on his shoulder and again choose to be kind. “Okay.”
But eventually, he’s going to have to face the truth.
And so will I.
****
Daniel is stressed. Big time.
He’s been at his laptop for an hour, doing extensive research on Wesley, Colebrook, and this Matthew Sanders guy. He tries identifying the boys in the five photos, but so far, the only clear one is a ninth-grader from the 2008 team. This means Colebrook has been photographing for as long as he’s been coaching, if not longer. This could also mean he has more than just photos in his house. Videos, perhaps? How could this guy go years without anyone discovering his perverted pastimes?
I have the power to turn the pictures over to the police myself. But Daniel is convinced he’ll be able to sort through everything on his own. Why take that burden? Why not let the police handle it?
As the seconds tick by, I grow restless and bored. There’s nothing to do in this town that I haven’t done already. Even if I wanted to venture out by myself, Daniel is too afraid I’ll run into Anna again. Or worse, Colebrook.
“Why don’t we take a break and go for a walk?” I glance at Samantha, who looks anxious for some exercise.
“Later,” Daniel says, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“Well, do you mind if I go for a walk? I can’t be cooped up all day, doing absolutely nothing.”
“You brought your laptop with you. You could be helping me.”
“Daniel, you’re not going to find anything online. You need the police to search Colebrook’s house if you want information.”
“Maybe we could do it.”
“Are you nuts?”
“We’ll just wait for him to leave and then sneak in somehow. He has dozens of boxes in his basement. There could be more information on Wesley down there.”
He must be losing it. Only idiots in a horror movie would do something like that. Why risk antagonizing Colebrook even more? Why give him the chance to retaliate?
“Daniel, you sound crazy now. For your own good, please just give up on this. Let the police handle it.”
“I can’t!” Daniel pounds his hands against his desk, startling Samantha to bark.
“Why?”
Daniel pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes start to water. “Because they’re going to worry way more about the kids in the photos than Wesley. They don’t care about him.”
“And you do?”
“If something horrific happened to Wesley, then I need to know. Otherwise, I’m always going to blame myself.”
“Blame yourself for what?”
“For what happened to my team.”
“You had nothing to do with that. You were sick that night.”
“Wesley snapped because we won states, and I’m the reason we won.”
“That’s ridiculous. You didn’t even know the guy. You didn’t help him buy a gun. You didn’t tell him to slaughter the team. That was his choice. It doesn’t matter what sort of tragic childhood he may have had; it doesn’t excuse him from murdering a bunch of innocent people. And let’s just say you do uncover some truth about him. Maybe he found out Colebrook was snapping photos, and Colebrook did something to make him quit the team. Do you really think people are going to stop seeing Wesley as a villain? Wesley could have been gang-raped by every boy on the team; the people who lost their sons are not going to forgive him.”
