The Less-Dead Read online

Hawk studies me. “Wearing that wire kept him out of jail. Will was seventeen when he got busted. He wouldn’t have gone to juvie. He would have gone to an adult prison.”

  “Yeah, well, a lot of good that does him now,” I say. “Besides, I’m surprised you, of all people, are defending the police.”

  Hawk shrugs. He looks tired; his Mohawk is limp and his nose bolt is red and infected. “I’m not defending them. Let’s just say I’ve been around the block a few times. I’ve had to do plenty of risky things. Anyway”—he taps the book—“I think you’ve got something here. But do you really believe the killer wrote the poems, the clues, for you? I mean, that’s pretty far out, Noah.”

  I sigh. “I know it sounds insane, even paranoid, but think about it. The first clue was written on the page from the day I met Will, in the margin next to the Lead Belly song. The second clue was written on the page from the day Kyle was murdered, the third on the day Paul was killed, right beside the poem Will wrote about me. I guess it could be a coincidence, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels personal.”

  “So if you’re right, the killer knows you. Kept his eye on you and Will when you were together.”

  “Yeah. Exactly. It’s pretty creepy.”

  “And if all of this is true, the killer would have written these clues in the book right after he strangled Will.”

  “Right,” I say. “Which goes along with the autopsy report. Supposedly there were several hours between the time Will died and the time the cross was carved into his chest. He could have written in Will’s book during that time.”

  Hawk gives me a strange look. “Wait a minute. How do you know about the autopsy report? It wasn’t released to the public.”

  I swallow hard. “Oh, right, well …”

  “Noah, who’ve you been talking to?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry.”

  “Listen, just sit on this for a while. Don’t do anything. We have some time. I’m going to talk to some people I know. Get a few things straight.”

  “Like who? Who would you talk to?”

  “I can’t tell you that.” Hawk opens the book and jots down a few more things. “I’ve got all the information I need. I want you to promise me that you won’t go to the police. At this point, they could screw up everything. If what you say is true, then it really does look like there’s going to be another murder. And if your theory’s right, November tenth would be the day. I may have a way to prevent it. Trust me, okay?”

  I look into his eyes, remembering Quindlan’s warning. I can only hope I’m doing the right thing.

  “And if you hear anything else, or if someone contacts you, let me know. Here’s my number.” Hawk rips off a piece of paper, writes down his number, and hands it to me. “Come on. That’s enough for today. I’ll take you home.”

  I say goodbye to Hawk and watch his Mustang disappear around the corner. A second later, Melanie runs outside. “Noah, I’m scared. It’s Daddy. He’s in the kitchen. He’s really upset. He’s been on the phone with the police.”

  “The police?”

  I run into the kitchen. My father is sitting at the table with his head in his hands. “Dad? What’s going on?”

  He looks up. “Noah. Thank goodness you’re home. I was getting worried. He called today.”

  “What do you mean? Who?”

  “The caller. On my show. I recognized his voice right away. I phoned the police, but again they weren’t able to trace him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, it was strange. It wasn’t his usual ranting about Austin’s gay community. Instead, he asked me a very unusual question. One I’d never heard on my show before. It was about the woman caught in adultery—you know, from the Gospel of John? He wanted to know what I thought Jesus wrote in the sand.”

  My legs feel weak. I pull out a chair and take a seat next to my father. “How did you answer him?”

  “I told him I didn’t know, that I needed to think it over. Actually, I was stalling for time. I thought the police might be able to trace him, but they couldn’t. Anyway, I asked him to call back tomorrow. The police said they’ll be waiting.”

  Later that night, while I’m lying in bed, unable to sleep, I consider calling Hawk. I even consider calling Quindlan. But instead, I pick up the phone and dial Aubrey’s number.

  “Noah? What’s going on? It’s late. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I need to go somewhere tomorrow. I was wondering if you’d come with me.”

  {twenty-one}

  THE FOLLOWING morning, I meet Aubrey on the corner near her house. “Aubrey, before we go, I need to ask you something. And it has nothing to do with Will or the murders or any of this. It’s about you and Brandon. Are the two of you together? I just need to know.”

  Aubrey sighs and glances down at the pavement. She unhitches her book bag from her shoulder and lets it fall to the ground. “Yes … well, no. I mean, I thought we were, until …” She trails off.

  “Until what?”

  “I know this sounds crazy, Noah, but until you sang that song for me at the Red Room.”

  “The song? Aubrey, can you explain that? I’m a little confused.”

  “I was too, until I figured it out. You see, after you sang those lyrics, I was really mad, only I realized later I wasn’t angry with you. I was angry with me.”

  “Really?” I raise an eyebrow and playfully rub the side of my face where she smacked me that night.

  “I’m sorry, Noah.” She reaches up and gently touches my face. Her hand is warm; it feels nice. “I was an idiot. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s just—”

  “No, it’s okay. Actually, the crowd loved it. Responded very well to the violence. You should have seen it; they went wild. But I’m still confused. Why are you angry with yourself?”

  “Because I didn’t even realize what happened between us that day, you know, in the woods, at that stupid youth retreat.”

  “And what happened?” I ask, biting my lip. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

  “A lot. But I got scared, Noah. I didn’t know what to do. We’d been friends for so long. And with all the trouble you’d been getting into, getting kicked out of school, all the heat from my parents, I was so mixed up.” Aubrey looks up shyly. Her eyes meet mine.

  “Well, how about for now we go back to being friends?” I say. “It would be a start.”

  She smiles. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  “Me too.”

  Together we hop the bus heading downtown and get off outside KMBJ. Aubrey’s dad has no clue that she just cut school to do a little sleuthing with Satan’s spawn, and my father has no idea that I’m about to be a guest speaker on his show.

  We walk past the radio tower and satellite dishes. Inside the building, we say hi to the receptionist, who flashes us a big smile and tells me how much I’ve grown. It’s been years since I’ve visited. We pass the production room, where a bunch of Bible zealots are working, and peek inside my dad’s studio. He’s alone, drinking coffee and fiddling with some knobs on the console. It’s funny: when I was a kid, I used to love to come here. My father would sit me on his lap and let me talk into the microphone, play with all the gizmos. That was when I thought he was the infallible mouth of God, before I figured out he was more like the guy behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz, pulling levers, pushing buttons, projecting an all-powerful image across the airwaves.

  We open the door and walk in. “Noah? Aubrey?” he says, looking startled. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in school?”

  Aubrey and I timed it just right. It’s three minutes before showtime. My dad’s headgear is on. The phone lines are already blinking. No time for explanations. “It’s okay, Dad,” I say. “I want to be here when he calls.”

  Worriedly, he glances at the clock and takes a look at the computer screen. “Well, you’re in luck. I believe that’s him.” He points to the word private blinking in red on the monitor. “He’s already on line thr
ee, waiting.”

  Aubrey and I take seats against the wall while my dad contacts the police. “Yes, Officer, I’m pretty sure it’s him,” he says. “We’ll be recording the show. Thank you.”

  My dad spins a few dials and plays a quick commercial advertising a Christian weight-loss program. After a lady sings a jingle—“Three scriptures a day keep those unwanted pounds at bay”—my father clears his throat and leans into the microphone. “Hello, friends. Good morning, and God bless you. This is the Bible Answer Guy, John Nordstrom, broadcasting from Austin, Texas… .”

  Aubrey whispers in my ear, “Noah, do you know what you’re going to say to the guy?”

  “No. I figure I can wing it.”

  My father takes the calls in order, but I can barely focus on the first two questions. There’s a crazy lady convinced that the new chip implants are the Mark of the Beast, and next is a guy who’s freaking out about his yoga-loving son who, instead of meditating on the Word of God, meditates on the word om.

  My dad gives both callers his typical evangelical answers. He explains the various interpretations of the number 666, then goes on to talk about the differences between Christianity and Eastern religions and tells caller number two to pray for his son to find the truth. After each call, he quotes from first Timothy, “For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind.” And even though I’m not about to jump on the Bible Answer Guy bandwagon, I think that verse makes a lot of sense. Especially the part about the sound mind.

  When my father is finally ready to take caller number three, he turns to me and nods.

  “Hello. John Nordstrom here. I’m ready for your question.”

  “Well, hello again, Dr. Nordstrom. We spoke yesterday. Do you remember?”

  “Ah, yes, of course. The mystery man. So, your question was, what did Jesus write in the sand?”

  As my father is speaking, I slip him a note. It reads When you’re finished, let me talk to him. Please.

  Our eyes meet. He hesitates for a moment, then leans toward the microphone. “I’m sorry to say that I haven’t been able to come up with an answer yet. You see, the Lord’s been dealing with me lately. It seems I think I know more than I do, which has been quite a humbling experience”—he chuckles—“seeing that I’m the Bible Answer Guy. Anyway, I must admit, I’m stumped by your question, but my son, Noah, is here in the studio, and he has some interesting insights. I think you’ll enjoy speaking with him. Noah?”

  I look at my dad, wondering if he really meant what he said about the Lord dealing with him, or if he’s just playing a game with the caller. He hands me a headset. I put it on. All of a sudden, I realize that not only are thousands of people listening to this show, but several police officers as well, and I have no idea how I’m going to pull this off.

  “Um, hi,” I say. The workers from the production room appear outside the studio window with their jaws hanging open. My dad has never had a live guest on his show before. One of the Bible zealots taps on the window. My dad flashes him a thumbs-up.

  “Why, I’m totally honored,” the caller says. “Imagine, to be speaking with the Bible Answer Guy’s son. Tell me, Noah, are you planning on following in your father’s footsteps?”

  It seems the caller is playing a game too. There’s a hint of sarcasm in his voice, and he seems to be challenging me. “Um, no, actually. Not at all. You may be surprised by this, but I don’t have much use for religion. Or church, for that matter.” I glance at my dad. I expect him to have a disapproving look on his face, but he doesn’t. However, the Bible zealots lined up at the window are freaking out. I ignore them. “I do believe in God, though, but my father and I have different views on a lot of subjects, especially on how to interpret the Bible. He’s much more literal than I am.”

  Now there’s a faint smile on my father’s face.

  “Really?” the caller says. “That’s very interesting. I must admit, I side with your father. I’m a literalist, a black-and-white kind of guy. What the Bible says, I believe is fact and not open to interpretation. But I’m interested to hear your opinion. So, tell me, Noah, what do you think Jesus wrote in the sand?”

  “A poem,” I say.

  “A poem?” He chuckles. “Well, I didn’t know Jesus was a poet.”

  “Oh, he was. Absolutely. I mean, he was with God in the beginning, so he created the world, right? And whether you believe it was in six days or six hundred million years, that’s still poetry.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “He also inspired the Psalms of King David, and the love songs of King Solomon,” I add. “He spoke in parables, too, which all have hidden meanings. In fact, the Bible tells us that Jesus never spoke without using a parable. So I believe there was a hidden meaning in what he wrote in the sand. Clues, maybe, to a future event.”

  “Oh. You mean, like a prediction of his death, possibly?”

  I glance at Aubrey. Her eyes are wide.

  “Yes,” I say. “His death. That’s quite possible, seeing that Jesus came to earth with a specific mission: to die.”

  The line is quiet for a while. “So,” he says, “Jesus may have written something like this. The place: Golgotha. The time: the sixth hour. The method: crucifixion. The betrayal: a kiss.”

  For a moment I can’t speak. I’m trying to process everything he said, see if it makes sense. Meanwhile Aubrey whispers something in my dad’s ear. He nods, pushes a few buttons on the computer, and hands me a phone. He whispers, “Here. I’ll take the next call. See if you can talk to him off the air.”

  I take off my headset and hand it to my father. He pushes a few more buttons and says, “Thank you, Noah, for being our special guest. And thank you, mystery man, for your very intriguing question. And now, may I take the next caller?”

  I walk a few paces and put the phone to my ear. “Who are you?” I demand. “What do you want? Why are you doing this?”

  At first all I hear is breathing. Then a laugh. “I’m impressed, Noah. You’re a smart boy. Brave, too. Keep searching for the truth. You’re definitely on the right path. And remember this: Jesus was betrayed by a friend.”

  “Wait, I—”

  Suddenly he hangs up, and all that’s left is a dial tone.

  {twenty-two}

  “THAT’S IT?” Aubrey says. “That’s all you’re going to do?”

  Detective Adams nods. “I’m sorry. That’s all we can do.”

  We’re still at my dad’s studio. Adams, one of the detectives working on the case, showed up fifteen minutes after the show. “We’ll continue looking into the possibilities, Dr. Nordstrom,” he says, “but right now we don’t have a solid reason to believe this caller is also the killer. It appears to be a coincidence that he called a week before Kyle Lester was murdered, and had some negative things to say about the gay community. Today he didn’t mention anything along those lines. However, it looks like he dialed from a pay phone, so we’ll check out the location, and see if we can get some prints.”

  “Yes, thank you, I understand,” my father says.

  “And if you get prints?” I say. My heart is still pounding in my chest. Even if the police get prints, I know what I have to do.

  “We’ll keep you informed,” he says. “Please, all of you, rest assured, the police are working very hard on this case. Dr. Nordstrom, thank you for alerting us about the caller. We’ll keep our eyes and ears open. We’ll let you know if there are any further developments.”

  The next day, I turn on my cell phone and punch in Quindlan’s number. Right now I don’t care what Hawk said about not contacting the police. And if Quindlan slaps a set of handcuffs on me, well, I’ll just have to deal with it.

  Quindlan answers on the first ring. “Hi, Noah. What’s up?”

  “Hey. We need to talk. And I need to show you something. It’s important.”

  “All right. I’m hanging out with Doomsday at our usual spot on the Drag. Hold on a second.” I hear shuffling and a dog
barking. Quindlan whispers, “Remember, don’t say or do anything to blow my cover around Doomsday. In fact, why don’t you play the Good Samaritan and take this poor homeless guy out for lunch? I’m starved.”

  “How does the Thai Noodle House sound?” I say.

  “Great.”

  Thirty minutes later, Carson and I park the DPCP’s old Lexus and cross Guadalupe on foot. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Carson says.

  “I told you, I need a decoy. I need you to hang out with Doomsday while I talk to Quindlan alone.”

  “But Doomsday’s crazy. And I think he hates me. Remember the way he was preaching at me last time? ‘If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out. Better to lose one eye than to be thrown into hell.’”

  “Just tell him you repented and you’re getting baptized. He’ll love that. The two of you should have a lot to talk about.”

  Carson stops. “Noah, wait.” There’s a serious look on his face. “What about you? Are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, you could toss that book in the trash right now. Go home. Forget the whole thing.”

  “No, I can’t do that.”

  “God, I wish you had listened to me in the first place and burned that damn book.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t. And I’m doing this for Will. Plus, if some other kid gets killed because I didn’t do the right thing, then I won’t be able to live with myself. So just do me a favor, okay? If Quindlan arrests me, go home and tell my parents. Tell them everything. And give Aubrey a call too.”

  “Right. And we’ll make sure to visit you in jail. I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

  As we approach, Hercules barks and barrels toward Carson. “Whoa, hey, Hercules.” Carson bends down and scratches the dog behind his ears while Hercules jumps up and licks his face.

  “What do you know? We’ve got company, Dooms,” Quindlan says. He sits up on his bedroll, yawns, and stretches.

  Doomsday is leaning against the church door, smoking a cigarette and reading a collection of poems by Pablo Neruda. When he sees me, his eyes widen. Guiltily, he drops his cigarette and stomps on it. “Oh, my. Sorry. Filthy habit. Hello, Noah. Did you come back to discuss end-time prophecy? I certainly hope so.”