The Less-Dead Read online

  ALSO BY APRIL LURIE

  The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine

  Brothers, Boyfriends & Other Criminal Minds

  Dancing in the Streets of Brooklyn

  For my husband, Ed,

  who appreciates my dark side.

  With love.

  {prologue}

  I find Will facedown in the woods near Barton Creek. For a split second I think he’s asleep, or hurt, yeah, maybe just hurt. Will’s crazy like that, camping out alone with no tent, not telling anyone where he is. But I realize it’s wishful thinking; his body is splayed out in that sickening way you see on episodes of CSI.

  My head starts to reel, so I grab what’s closest—the trunk of a river birch—and hang on. I don’t believe in signs or prophecies or visions from God, but Will’s been missing twenty-four hours now, and when a dream woke me in the middle of the night, I knew he’d be here. In this exact spot.

  I manage a few steps. In the distance, water surges over the rocks. Above, cicadas whir in the treetops. It’s deafening. I kneel down. “Will? Hey, Will?” Crazy me, talking to a corpse.

  I turn him over and see the bruises first—dark purple bands across his neck. Strangled, like the others. A circle of blood has soaked through his Kinks T-shirt, the one that used to belong to me. Will told me he liked the band, so I gave it to him. He said as payment he’d help me write a song for Aubrey, the girl who broke my heart right when all these crazy things started happening.

  A corner of white catches my eye. Beside Will’s head lies a small sheet of paper held in place by a limestone rock. The killer’s note. I lift the rock and see letters cut from newspaper pasted to the page.

  I drop the rock. Beside the note is a coiled rope. The murder weapon.

  I stare at the circle of blood fanning out from the center of Will’s chest. Slowly, I lift his shirt, inching it up, little by little. My hands are shaking. There it is. A simple cross. A delicate, meticulous carving. The wound is raw, pink, glistening in the morning sun.

  Cold sweat pours out of me. Blood sings in my ears. Before I know it, I’m puking my guts out. When I can finally stand, I reach for my cell phone, and that’s when I see Will’s small leather notebook of handwritten poems tossed aside in a pile of dead leaves. I pick it up and shove it into my back pocket. The police don’t deserve his words. No one does, really. Then I dial 911.

  {one}

  I SUPPOSE my biggest problem is that my father is the Bible Answer Guy. In case you’ve never heard his radio show, it’s on Monday through Friday, ten a.m., on KMBJ. Not that you’d actually want to tune in. You don’t. First they play this seriously crappy inspirational music, and then my dad comes on to answer questions from listeners who call in from all over the country. He’s pretty famous. But if you were feeling slightly masochistic and happened to check it out, it would give you a good idea of what it’s like to be me—his sixteen-year-old son who despises church and religion and phony youth pastors who think it’s their job to save your soul.

  A highly popular question on my dad’s program is “Dr. Nordstrom, what, in your opinion, is the unpardonable sin?” Well, I don’t need my dad to answer that one. In my family, the unpardonable sin is getting sent to the Rock—an alternative school for juvenile delinquents—for eating Ritz crackers topped with apricot-hash jelly right before AP music theory. Which is what Carson, my best friend and fellow band member, and I did about a month ago.

  It was early September, and technically, we were performing an experiment—to see how altered states of consciousness affected perceptions of tone and pitch. Very important if you aspire to play live music. We thought our teacher, Mr. Flynn, would be cool with this, since he’s only twenty-five and supposedly open-minded, but we were wrong. And stupid. When he asked us to step outside class and tell him what was so hilarious about a G note on the treble clef, we told him about the jelly. Carson’s recipe, by the way. He nodded and sighed and told us sadly that if he didn’t report us, his job would be on the line. So he led Carson and me, like lambs to the slaughter, to the eleventh-grade principal, who sentenced us to sixty days.

  As you can imagine, this whole ordeal was a complete embarrassment to my father. It’s not easy to be the Bible Answer Guy when you’ve got a reprobate son. And since I’d been getting into quite a bit of trouble over the summer—making out in the woods with Aubrey at the You’re Worth the Wait youth retreat, coming home drunk at four a.m. after a gig at Ben Huber’s birthday party, and skipping church to get high with Carson at the Barton Creek Greenbelt—my parents decided to crack down on me, practice what they call tough love—a phrase coined by the Reverend Billy Graham or some other evangelical hotshot. Basically it means unlimited slave labor, a twelve o’clock curfew, and the removal of all evil influences from my life, Carson being number one on the list.

  Obviously I didn’t cooperate, and when my parents realized I was a lost cause, they started locking me out of the house at night if I missed my curfew. But as it turned out, this punishment was harder on them than on me. I know this because my little sister, Melanie, always tells me about how Dad gets real quiet and Mom bawls her eyes out whenever I don’t come home. Which makes me feel kind of guilty, but then again, I’m not the one turning the key, am I?

  Anyway, I missed my curfew again, so that’s why I’m standing here now at two in the morning, tossing pebbles at Carson’s bedroom window. Finally it slides open, and his head pops out. “Noah? Is that you?” Carson’s trying to grow dreadlocks, mostly to torture his dad, and right now he’s got his hair tied up in a million multicolored rubber bands that are supposed to speed up the matting process. He looks like the Kosmic Koosh Ball I bought Melanie for Christmas last year.

  “No, my sweet Roxanne,” I say, “it is I, your beloved Cyrano.”

  He groans. “Noah, come on, give it up already.”

  “My nose may be large,” I declare, “but other parts of me are even larger. Come into the light so I may gaze upon your beauty while I recite my love poems.” This is sort of a running joke between me and Carson. After our English class read Cyrano de Bergerac, Carson started calling me Cyrano. Not because I have a huge schnoz or anything, but because I like poetry. So whenever I show up at Carson’s window after midnight, I create a new balcony scene.

  “Listen, I’ll be right there. But keep your voice down. The DPCP just went to bed and he’s pissed.”

  “Oh, okay. Sorry, man.” DPCP stands for Demon-Possessed Capitalist Pig. It’s what Carson calls his father, who’s the president of this very successful company that makes prosthetic limbs. You know, fake arms and legs. He’s also an atheist, which I find rather fascinating.

  I head to the backyard, and a minute later Carson unlocks the door of his 2.3-million-dollar house, located in one of the richest neighborhoods in Austin. Earlier tonight we played a gig at Greg Ziegler’s party, and I was the only loser who had a curfew. Carson’s parents are pretty strict, but not completely unreasonable like mine. “What happened?” he says. “You left the party at eleven. Said you’d make it home before twelve.”

  “Yeah, well, I got sidetracked.”

  “You mean you stopped by Aubrey’s again. You’re pathetic, Noah, you know that? Come on.” He leads me into the kitchen, opens the freezer, and grabs two pints of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. I practically live at Carson’s house and his mom buys it especially for me. “Let me guess,” he says. “Aubrey’s dad answered the door, whipped out a King James and a chastity belt, and preached to you about the evils of premarital sex.”

  Carson’s trying to cheer me up, but I can barely crack a smile. Aubrey’s father is the pastor of my church—a huge obstacle when it comes to my love life. “No. Aubrey answered the door, but she wouldn’t let me in. Plus, she smelled alcohol
on my breath, and freaked. Anyway, we got into a pretty bad argument. She … well, she said she didn’t want to see me anymore.”

  Carson sighs and slides a pint of ice cream over to me. “Dig in, dude. It’ll ease the pain.”

  I try a spoonful, but it doesn’t work. The truth is I can’t stop thinking about Aubrey. And even though Carson won’t admit it, I know he misses her too. The three of us had been close friends since seventh grade, but everything got screwed up this summer at that stupid You’re Worth the Wait youth retreat. Carson didn’t go—the DPCP would never pay for a weekend of Christian propaganda—but Aubrey and I went, mostly because our parents twisted our arms, but we figured that between sessions on sexual purity, we could go water-skiing, blobbing, and ziplining. We could also sneak out of class, which we did. One afternoon, Aubrey and I ditched “The Perils of Kissing,” and after we laughed our heads off about it, Aubrey dared me to kiss her.

  We were in the woods, halfway to the lake. At first I thought she was joking, but when I looked into her eyes, I saw that she wasn’t. I’d been secretly lusting after Aubrey since the beginning of sophomore year, but we’d been friends so long I’d been afraid to make a move. Soon we were pressed up against a tree, making out like crazy, until a guy from Christian dork patrol spotted us. Aubrey got into a lot of trouble—her parents grounded her for two weeks—and when Carson and I got kicked out of school a few weeks later for the hash jelly experiment, Aubrey’s father, Pastor Simpson, decided I was Satan’s spawn and put his foot down. Outside church, Aubrey wasn’t allowed to see me. Now I’d do anything to go back to the way things were. Even if it meant just being friends.

  I take another spoonful of ice cream. “So, what’s the DPCP pissed about this time?” I say.

  Carson rolls his eyes. “Same old crap. He wants me to get a job after school. Says I’m lazy and undisciplined.” He screws up his face, pulls his dreads to the side like a comb-over, and does his best DPCP impersonation. “You’d better practice flipping burgers, Son, because the only people who’d hire you with that… that hair are the freaks at Lou’s Grease Pit.”

  Carson’s got me laughing now. I guess I’m lucky in a way. The Bible Answer Guy doesn’t pressure me to get a job, because he’s hoping I’ll go back to pitching for McCallum High once I get out of the Rock. That’s his other religion, by the way. Baseball.

  “Or, how about this?” I say. “You could dress up like a slice of pizza and wave to people outside Hungry Howie’s. That way, no one would see your hair or your face.”

  Carson glares at me. “Noah, come on, this is not funny! We’re musicians! Artists! We can’t be tied down to menial jobs. Besides, if you and I are ever going to write that breakout song—one that will rock the world—it’s going to take time, sacrifice.”

  “True.” I dig up a monster-sized cherry, pop it into my mouth, and chew. The taste reminds me of kissing Aubrey.

  Carson’s really wired now. He stands up and practically knocks over his chair. “Listen, Noah, we need to stop messing around. I mean, what are we doing playing gigs at high school parties? We’re way too talented for that. Think about it! We live in Austin. The live-music capital of the world! We need to escape the evils of suburbia and get out there. Downtown! Sixth Street! The Drag!”

  “But we’re only sixteen,” I say. “And we don’t have any experience.”

  “It doesn’t matter! Here, look at this.” Carson grabs the entertainment section of the newspaper and points to a photo of a guy playing guitar. He has a mop of curly hair. “That’s Sean Espinoza. He’s fifteen. He plays Tuesdays at the Saxon Pub.”

  “Really?” I peer more closely. This guy Sean’s got a real baby face. Pimples, too. I scan the article. It says that besides talent, Sean’s got a solid work ethic, and if he keeps playing, he might be Austin’s next Stevie Ray. “But I don’t get it,” I say. “I thought you had to be twenty-one to get into the Saxon Pub.”

  Carson groans like I’m the most naive guy on the planet, which I sort of am after having spent half my life in church. “Dude, not if you’re the performing artist. Look, right here it says that Sean began as a street performer on the Drag. People liked his music, word got around, and next thing you know, he’s a star! Come on, what do you say we go down there tomorrow?”

  “Hmmm …” I don’t have the heart to tell Carson that tomorrow, Saturday, to atone for my many sins, I’m supposed to cut the grass, weed-whack, and paint the back fence. But suddenly an idea pops into my head. The Drag, aka Guadalupe Street, is where the zealots from my youth group go every Saturday to witness to the lost. They claim Satan has a stronghold on the Drag because of its new age shops, tattoo parlors, dive bars, and drug dealers, and they have to win it back for the Lord. Anyway, my parents would never refuse if I told them I wanted to hang with the youth group on Saturday. And if I was bringing Carson along, well, maybe he’d listen to the gospel and get saved. Of course, little would they know, Carson and I would be spreading our own gospel: rock and roll.

  “What do you say, Noah? Are you with me or not?”

  “Yeah, man. I’m with you. Totally.”

  “All right, then.” Carson holds out his fist. I bump it. “Tomorrow, we take our guitars to the Drag. Show Austin what we’ve got.”

  We finish off the pints of Ben & Jerry’s, and Carson heads back to bed. I’m not tired yet, so I spread out the newspaper on the kitchen table. I’m about to reread the Sean Espinoza story, but something else catches my eye. A blurb on the front page of the Metro section.

  SUSPECT ARRESTED IN

  MURDER OF GAY TEEN

  A man is being held without bail for the brutal murder of Austin teenager Kyle Lester, who was found dead on Sept. 9 in the back alley of Urban Legend, a popular gay bar on Sixth Street—the city’s live-entertainment district.

  I can hardly breathe. About a month ago, right before I got kicked out of school and things were getting pretty hairy between me and my parents, there was this psycho who kept calling in to my dad’s radio show. The guy seemed intelligent and knowledgeable about the Bible, but after a while it was clear that he was completely warped. He’d call in with a question but would soon begin to rant about Austin’s gay community and how God was going to bring judgment upon them.

  My dad always gave the guy his lame, standard answer concerning homosexuality—hate the sin but love the sinner—but soon the guy became so angry and belligerent that my father stopped taking his calls. One week later, a gay eighteen-year-old boy, Kyle Lester, was strangled to death outside Urban Legend. A cross had been carved into his chest. The killer left behind a rope, the murder weapon. Along with it, a note—letters cut from newspaper.

  {two}

  SATURDAY MORNING, I jog home from Carson’s, sneak past my parents, who are drinking coffee on the back patio, and tiptoe into Melanie’s room. I swear, the kid is such a sack rat. It’s eleven o’clock and she’s still sound asleep. I take a seat on her bed, pleased to see the collection of poetry I gave her for her ninth birthday this year sitting on the night table. Since the only books in our family’s library are Bibles, Bible commentaries, and inspirational junk about how to live an exciting Christian life (oxymoron, if you ask me), I figure someone has to enlighten her.

  I open to the page she’s dog-eared—“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” by Robert Frost—and run my finger across the first three lines she’s underlined all wiggly in pencil.

  The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

  But I have promises to keep,

  And miles to go before I sleep,

  “Noah?” She smiles dreamily and is about to reach out and give me hug, but then she sticks out her tongue and rolls over. “You’re a big fat liar! Go away!”

  “Hey, come on, Mel. All right, so I didn’t come home last night. So I’m not perfect. But, listen, there’s a reason.”

  She throws a stuffed lizard at me; its beady eye scrapes my cheek. “Yeah, like what?”

  “Ouch! Jeez, Mel! I stopped by Au
brey’s after our gig, all right?”

  Melanie’s quiet now and I can tell she’s thinking things over. She misses Aubrey almost as much as I do. Before the whole mess happened, Aubrey used to hang out at our house all the time. She’d braid Melanie’s hair, paint her toenails, give her advice about boys. Slowly, Melanie turns around. Her eyes are puffy, like she went to bed crying. I hope it wasn’t because of me. “So … what did Aubrey say? Does she want to be friends again?”

  “Well, it was late and she couldn’t really talk, but I’m working on it, okay?”

  Melanie sighs. Then she looks at me all serious and her chin begins to quiver. “Noah, I’m scared. I heard Mom and Dad talking last night. They said if you keep getting into trouble, they’re going to send you away. To a farm or something, where they keep horses and pigs and chickens. I don’t want you to go!”

  “Oh, come on, Mel. No one’s sending me anywhere. Besides, I’d never leave you.” I make a goofy face and tickle her; she starts to laugh. My parents think they’re hiding something, but I’ve seen the stuff that’s been coming in the mail lately—pamphlets about Christian farms for troubled youths. The idea is that if you pay a butt-load of money, your delinquent kid gets his very own horse to care for. Which sounds pretty cool, right? But here’s the catch. The farms are like fascist right-wing military schools. No phones, no radio, no secular music, no coed mingling, and the only book you can read is the Bible. Screw that.

  I hear footsteps in the hallway. I can tell it’s my dad, because he’s got these brand-new tennis shoes that squeak. Melanie’s door is slightly ajar and he raps it a few times. “Noah, is that you?”

  “Oh, come in, Daddy,” Melanie says. “Noah’s here and he’s absolutely fine. The reason he was late last night is because he went to visit Aubrey. So, he’s not in trouble, right?”

  When my dad enters, I study his face, wondering if he’s seen the article in the paper about the murder suspect. It’s hard to tell. I brace myself for a proverb like As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly, but instead, he just sighs and pats Melanie on the head. He looks worn out, which may not be a bad thing for me. “Well, sweetie, I’m glad Noah’s home, and I’m glad he’s fine, but—”