The Less-Dead Read online

  My mother turns around. She’s crying. “Will, please, I want you to know that our church, what we believe, it’s nothing like that horrible Westboro Baptist hate group. I mean, there’s just no excuse—”

  “I understand, Mrs. Nordstrom, really. You don’t need to explain.”

  My dad puts a hand on my mother’s shoulder. There’s a pained expression on his face. I know Kyle’s murder still haunts him. Now another boy is dead. And now he’s facing Will—a living, breathing gay teenager standing in his own kitchen. Someone he just shared a meal with. If he had to take that call over again, what would his answer be?

  “Mrs. Nordstrom?” Will says. “Is it okay if I chill out in the guest room? I’d like to be alone for a while.”

  “Of course, Will. Go right ahead. Let us know if you need anything.”

  Will picks up his grocery bags.

  “Hey, I’ll come by later, dude,” I say. “Maybe we can play a game of chess or something? Take your mind off things?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Noah.”

  After Will closes the door of the guest room, I take a seat opposite my parents.

  My mom lowers the volume on the TV. “John, this is crazy. That guy was Melanie’s Sunday school teacher. And to think we had no clue.”

  My dad nods slowly. “Yes, well, obviously Warren Banks is very disturbed and very good at hiding it. Still, it’s hard to believe no one from King of Glory caught on. They do background checks on all the people in the children’s ministry, so apparently his record was clean.” He sighs. “At least they’ve got him now. It won’t happen again.”

  “I think we should keep in mind that he’s just a suspect,” my mom says. “He’s not necessarily guilty. Although it certainly seems that way.”

  “There’s something I don’t get,” I say. “On the news, they said Warren Banks was a regular customer at Urban Legend. So doesn’t that mean … ?”

  “That Banks is homosexual?” my father says. “It’s certainly possible. He could have been fighting his… well, his demons, so to speak, projected his struggle on others, and become violent, but it’s also just as likely that he was a stalker waiting for the right victim. Someone like Kyle, and now this other boy. Whatever the case, they’re both heinous hate crimes.”

  I sit there for a while, thinking about how screwed up all this is. Demons? Christian gay-bashers? If you ask me, John Lennon was right. Imagine a world with no religion. Maybe that’s heaven.

  “Dad? Do you think that’s him? Do you think Warren Banks is the caller from your show?”

  He sighs deeply. “There’s no way to tell, Noah. If you remember, he disguised his voice with some sort of digital device. The police have all the audiotapes of my show. They weren’t able to make a match.”

  “I know it’s him,” I say. “I just do. When you put it together—what he said on your show, and the fact that Kyle was killed one week after he stopped calling. And now we find out he was a member of that crazy church.”

  My dad is quiet for a long time. Finally he says, “Noah, even if Warren Banks was the caller, I didn’t have the ability to stop his crimes. Yes, what he said was hateful, but you know what the Bible says about homosexuality.” He glances toward the guest room and lowers his voice. “It doesn’t matter that you have a friend who’s gay. It’s still a sin. Period. I can’t pretend that it’s not. I’m not going to condone homosexuality on my show.”

  “Really?” I say. “So let me ask you something, Dad. What if I was gay? Your own son. What would you do? Disown me? Throw me out of the house? Damn me to hell?”

  “Noah, please,” my mother says. “Don’t speak to your father that way.”

  “I’ll speak to him however I like. And what about the other Bible verse, Dad? The one that says, ‘Do not judge, or you too will be judged.’ Do you just toss that one out the window? You’re so busy pointing the finger. Have you even bothered to look at yourself?”

  I’m seething now. I get up, march to my room, and slam the door. A minute later, Melanie pokes her head in. “Noah, what’s wrong? Why are you screaming at Daddy?”

  “Go away!”

  She makes a face, slams the door, and runs down the stairs. “Mom? Dad? What’s the matter with Noah?”

  I grab my iPod, stuff the earpieces into my ears, and turn up the volume. I lie down for a while, then pick up my chess set and head for the guest room. I knock. “Will? Hey, is it all right if I come in?”

  No answer.

  “Will?” I push the door open. “Will?” I look around. He’s gone. There’s a note on the pillow. I pick it up. Scrawled on the page is the first sentence of Tupac’s poem.

  {eight}

  THE NEXT day I’m in PE, bouncing a basketball on the outdoor courts. It’s a game of one-on-one against myself. The rest of the class is playing softball, but I’m not in the mood for team sports. Not today. Each time my ball hits the ground, inside my head I hear God. Hates. Fags. Bounce, bounce. Fags. Hate. God. Bounce, bounce. I want to scream. I lift the ball, and just as I’m about to shoot, someone calls, “Noah!”

  I turn and see Will. He’s hiding behind the rear wall of the school, waving me over. I glance around. Coach Cameron is pitching softballs, his back toward me. I toss the basketball and run over to Will.

  “Dude, what’s going on?” I say. “Why’d you leave last night?”

  “Don’t worry about that, Noah. It’s not a big deal. I had stuff to do.”

  “Stuff? Like what? Will, the body they found near Town Lake? That could have been you.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I know. Look, I don’t want you to get involved in this, Noah. I had to split last night because I knew your parents would try to force me to stay. And, well, I couldn’t.”

  “I wish you had. My dad might be an asshole, but he was going to find you a home. He wouldn’t have given up until he’d known you were safe.”

  “I know. But right now, I just … I need a friend. Someone to talk to. This whole thing is freaking me out. I’m scared.”

  “Me too.” I glance back at my PE class. Coach Cameron is still pitching softballs. As far as I can tell, no one knows I’m missing. “I’ve got about twenty minutes. But what about you? Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “I called in sick. I’m planning to be sick all week. Last night, after I left your house, I went to talk to the undercover detective I used to work with. He thinks it’s best for me to disappear for a while. He’s gonna help me out.”

  “Disappear? But where will you go?”

  “Don’t worry, I have a place. Anyway, I won’t be around for a while, so I wanted to say goodbye. Also, I wanted to give you something.”

  Will reaches inside his coat, pulls out a leather notebook, and hands it to me. It resembles his book of poetry, but it’s newer, less worn. “You can write your songs in there,” he says.

  I open the book. The pages are blank, except for the inside cover.

  “Nordstrom! What the hell are you doing over there?” It’s Coach Cameron. The snitch beside him is TJ Dumont.

  “You’d better go,” Will says.

  “But—”

  “Hurry.” Will takes off.

  I shove the book into my back pocket and head toward Coach.

  “Who was with you?” he says.

  “No one.”

  “Right. Spread your arms and legs.”

  TJ smirks while Coach pats me down. When Coach gets to my back pocket, he pulls out the book. “What’s this?”

  “Um, a book,” I say.

  “Don’t be a wiseguy, Nordstrom. I can see it’s a book. Why’s it in your back pocket during PE?”

  I shrug. “Thought I’d take some notes.”

  “Very funny.” He flips through the pages, looking for drugs or razor blades or god knows what, and hands it back to me. “All right. Get back to the courts. Fifty pushups and a hundred sit-ups. Now!”

  When I’m on push-up number twenty-three, TJ Dumont strolls up behind me and whips the
book out of my pocket. I jump up and try to grab it, but it’s too late.

  “‘Dear Noah …’” He reads the inscription aloud. The moron pronounces facets like faucets. “‘Your friend, Will.’” A grin spreads across his face. “Whoa! Guys! Get a load of this! Nordstrom’s a queer! Some dude is writing him poetry!”

  “Shut up, Dumont. Give me the book.”

  He holds up a limp wrist, grabs his crotch with his other hand, and makes an obscene gesture. “What were you two faggots doing behind the wall, Nordstrom? Sticking it where the sun don’t shine?”

  Without even thinking I punch Dumont in the stomach. He falls to the ground. I grab the book.

  “Nordstrom!” Coach calls. “All right, that’s it! Get your ass to the office! Now!”

  While the class looks on in amusement, some clapping, some whistling, I shove the book into my pocket and head toward the door. As I’m walking through the hallway to the main office, I stop in front of a trash can. I hesitate for a moment, then pop the lid, drop in the book, and listen to the quiet thud.

  {nine}

  MY PUNISHMENT for punching TJ Dumont in the gut is one week of ISS—In-School Suspension, a term the Rock uses to mean torturing students until they succumb to a mental breakdown. Basically you go to a room filled with other offenders and do your work silently, and if you speak one word—even during lunch, when you’re trying to gag down a prison soy burger—they give you an extra day of ISS. I’ve heard that some kids never get out.

  Anyway, it’s my first day. I’m halfway through my math assignment when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around. It’s Hawk. He slips into the seat behind me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the police handcuffed him in the hallway, since he leaned over and whispered, “Noah, take care of Will.”

  Beneath the desk he hands me a crumpled, dirtstained sheet of paper, folded in half. I open it and read:

  I look at Hawk and mouth, Where is he? Have you seen him?

  Hawk shakes his head and motions to the front of the room. Slowly, I turn around.

  Mr. Briggs is glaring at me. “Is there a problem, Mr. Nordstrom?”

  “No, sir. No problem.”

  “And, Mr. Smith,” he says to Hawk, “what are you doing here? I don’t have you on the ISS list.”

  Hawk stands, walks to the front of the room, and hands Briggs a referral paper. Briggs studies it. “Fine, have a seat. You know the rules.”

  Hawk looks straight ahead when he passes my desk. He takes a seat. I try to concentrate on my math, but I can’t. I look at the clock on the wall, ticking away the minutes. I wait for Mr. Briggs to answer a phone call, pour a cup of coffee, scratch an itch—anything. Finally he reaches into his bag and shuffles through some papers. I turn around.

  Hawk is gone.

  After school, while Carson and I are waiting for the bus, I show him the note.

  “I don’t know, man,” he says. “I mean, I definitely want to rock out at the Red Room and all, but this is weird. Hawk delivers the note, and then he disappears? Briggs has security search for him and he doesn’t show up. I mean, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. I wish Will had told me where he’d be hiding. I just want to talk to him, make sure he’s all right.”

  “Hey, Noah?” Carson says. “Are you going to show that note to your father? Let him know Will’s been in touch?”

  I think this over. “No. Why should I? What good would it do?”

  After Will left our house Monday night, my father called Child Protective Services. They told him they would contact Will’s social worker and, after twenty-four hours, file a missing persons report. Whether they did, I don’t know; I haven’t spoken a word to my dad since Will left.

  A minute later our bus pulls in. “Hey, Carson, I have an idea about how we might find Will. Do you still have the spare key to the DPCP’s old Lexus?”

  Carson’s got his driver’s license, but since he’s been such a screwup lately, his dad took his keys away and hasn’t let him drive. Luckily Carson made a spare in case of an emergency Like this one. He grins. “Yeah. It’s in my room. Why?”

  “Let’s take it down to the Drag. We need some answers.”

  Carson parks the Lexus on Twentieth and Guadalupe, and together we head to the old Methodist church. Doomsday is propped up against one of the carved wooden doors, hunched over a tattered book, his lips moving. I peer at the book’s cover, expecting a Bible, but it’s Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. Quindlan is lying beside Doomsday on his bedroll, eyes closed, petting his mangy dog and taking in the sun. As we climb the stairs, I hear Doomsday reading aloud to Quindlan.

  “Scented herbage of my breast,

  Leaves from you I glean …”

  Suddenly the dog’s ears perk up. He lets out a yap. Quindlan sits up; Doomsday stops reading. “Well, well, what do you know?” Quindlan says. “We’ve got company, Dooms. It’s Rasta Man and the Bible Answer Boy.”

  Doomsday blinks a few times and scratches his beard. The guy’s ancient. He gazes at me like he’s Moses and I’m the burning bush.

  Carson leans over and whispers, “Did that guy just call me Rasta Man?”

  “Yeah. I guess it’s your dreads.”

  Quindlan stands and holds out a hand to me. He looks to be in his midthirties, and if you didn’t know he was homeless, you might think he was a grad student living in one of those hippie co-ops. He’s pretty grungy, though, and his dog’s got some nasty-looking bald patches. I hesitate for a moment, wondering which communicable disease I’m going to catch if I shake his hand. He chuckles. “Don’t worry, Bible Boy, I don’t bite. Besides”—he pats the dog’s head and grins—“Hercules and I both got our rabies shots last week.”

  Doomsday bursts out laughing. “You better watch out, boys. That Quindlan, he’s a bit of a schizoid.”

  Quindlan winks at me. My face burns as I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “Same here. We were hoping you’d stop by. Doomsday’s your father’s biggest fan.”

  “Nice,” I say. “I’ll be sure to let my dad know.”

  Quindlan moves on to Carson, who doesn’t look too thrilled about the handshake either. “We saw you here on the Drag last week,” Quindlan says to Carson, “playing evangelist and chasing after that pretty girl.”

  “Yes, we did,” Doomsday chimes in, giving Carson the death stare. “If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out! Better to lose one part of your body than to have your whole body thrown into hell. Matthew five, twenty-nine.”

  Carson’s speechless. He looks at me.

  “Don’t mind Doomsday,” Quindlan says. “He means well; he just gets carried away sometimes.”

  Carson leans over and gives me a nudge. “Come on, dude, get on with it.”

  “Listen, maybe you guys can help us,” I say. “We’re looking for Will. Do you know where he is?”

  “We might,” Quindlan says, “but, please, come join us for a while. Doomsday was just finishing a beautiful passage from Leaves of Grass. The man reads with such heart.”

  “Oh, no thanks,” I say. “I mean, we’d like to, but we’re in kind of a rush.”

  “Yeah,” Carson says. “A big rush.”

  “Plus,” I go on, “we’re really worried about Will, so if you could—”

  “Will’s fine,” Quindlan says. “Absolutely fine. And besides, there’s always time for poetry. Especially if Doomsday’s reading.” He gazes up at the UT tower. “Did Will tell you? Doomsday used to be a professor at the college. He taught American literature. In fact, that’s how he and Will got to be such good friends. They both love words.”

  Jeez, maybe Quindlan is a schizoid. “Um, no, he didn’t mention that. But if you would just—”

  “Please, come, sit down. When Dooms is finished, we’ll talk about Will.”

  I look at Carson and shrug. It’s not like we have much of a choice. We take seats on the ground opposite Doomsday. Immediately Quindlan’s mangy dog jumps
into Carson’s lap and starts licking his face. “Hey, what do you know?” Quindlan says. “Hercules likes you.”

  “Yeah, lucky me,” Carson says.

  Doomsday continues reading from Leaves of Grass.

  “Tomb-leaves, body-leaves,

  growing up above me, above death …”

  I have to admit, the guy’s got perfect diction, a lilting cadence, and just the right amount of emotion. If you closed your eyes and breathed through your mouth to avoid the occasional whiff of rank air, you might think you were in a college classroom.

  When Doomsday is finished, he sighs deeply and closes the book. He holds out a hand to me, and this time I make sure I don’t hesitate. We shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noah. Your father is a great man. A modern-day John the Baptist. A true hero.” He tightens his grip and looks into my eyes. “We need to talk. I’d love to hear your opinion on end-time prophecy.”

  “Well, actually, I don’t know anything about that.” I wiggle my hand free and turn to Quindlan. “You said Will was okay. We really need to see him. Please, can you tell us where he is now?”

  Doomsday peers at me. “Why, exactly, do you want to see Will?”

  “Because we’re friends. He hasn’t been at school, and with everything that’s going on, you know, with the two foster kids who were murdered, we’re worried.”

  Under his breath, Doomsday mutters to Quindlan, “Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.”

  Quindlan pats his knee. “Calm down, Dooms.”

  Doomsday exhales loudly, waves Quindlan away, and goes back to his book. He mumbles, “‘Resist the devil and he will flee from you.’”

  “Come on, boys, follow me,” Quindlan says. He motions for me and Carson to get up. We do. As he leads us to the other side of the church, Hercules trails after Carson, whimpering.

  “Okay, I’m going to draw you a map that will take you to Will,” Quindlan says. “Here, turn around, Noah.” He plucks a pen and paper from his pocket. I lean over, and he uses my back for a hard surface. He begins to draw.