The Jodi Picoult Collection #3 Read online

  “You know, it’s wise to keep a spare tank . . .” Mr. Weatherhall’s voice floated from the bottom of the basement stairs, accompanied by the percussion of his footsteps. Peter let go of the gun, snapped his hands back to his sides.

  He was sweating by the time Mr. Weatherhall walked into the kitchen. “You all right?” he asked, peering at Peter. “You look a little white around the gills.”

  “I stayed up late doing homework. Thanks for the gas. Again.”

  “You tell your dad I’m not bailing him out next time,” Mr. Weatherhall said, and he waved Peter off from the porch.

  Peter waited until Mr. Weatherhall had closed the door, and then he started to run, kicking up snow in his wake. He left the gas can next to the snow blower and burst into his house. He locked his bedroom door, took the gun from his pants, and sat down.

  It was black and heavy crafted out of alloyed steel. What was really surprising was how fake the Glock looked—like a kid’s toy gun—although Peter supposed he ought to be marveling instead at how realistic the toy guns actually were. He racked the slide and released it. He ejected the magazine.

  He closed his eyes and held the gun up to his head. “Bang,” he whispered.

  Then he set the gun on his bed and pulled off one of his pillowcases. He wrapped the Glock inside it, rolling it up like a bandage. He slipped the gun between his mattress and his box spring and lay down.

  It would be like that fairy tale, the one with the princess who could feel a bean or a pea or whatever. Except Peter wasn’t a prince, and the lump wouldn’t keep him up at night.

  In fact, it might make him sleep better.

  * * *

  In Josie’s dream, she was standing in the most beautiful tepee. The walls were made of buttery deerskin, sewed tight with golden thread. Stories had been painted all around her in shades of red, ochre, violet, and blue—tales of hunts and loves and losses. Rich buffalo skins were piled high for cushions; coals glowed like rubies in the firepit. When she looked up, she could see stars falling through the smoke hole.

  Suddenly Josie realized that her feet were sliding; worse, that there was no way to stop this. She glanced down and saw only sky; wondered whether she’d been silly enough to believe she could walk among the clouds, or if the ground beneath her feet had disappeared when she looked away.

  She started to fall. She could feel herself tumbling head over heels; felt the skirt she was wearing balloon and the wind rush between her legs. She didn’t want to open her eyes, but she couldn’t help peeking: the ground was rushing up at an alarming pace, postage-stamp squares of green and brown and blue that grew larger, more detailed, more realistic.

  There was her school. Her house. The roof over her bedroom. Josie felt herself hurtle toward it and she steeled herself for the inevitable crash. But you never hit the ground in your dreams; you never get to see yourself die. Instead, Josie felt herself splash, her clothes billowing like the sails of a jellyfish as she treaded warm water.

  She woke up, breathless, and realized that she still felt wet. She sat up, lifted up the covers, and saw the pool of blood beneath her.

  After three positive pregnancy tests, after her period was three weeks late—she was miscarrying.

  Thankgodthankgodthankgod. Josie buried her face in the sheets and started to cry.

  * * *

  Lewis was sitting at the kitchen table on Saturday morning, reading the latest issue of The Economist and methodically working his way through a whole-wheat waffle, when the phone rang. He glanced at Lacy, who—beside the sink—was technically closer to it, but she held up her hands, dripping with water and soap. “Could you . . . ?”

  He stood up and answered it. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Houghton?”

  “Speaking,” Lewis said.

  “This is Tony, from Burnside’s. Your hollow-point bullets are in.”

  Burnside’s was a gun shop; Lewis went there in the fall for his Hoppe’s solvent and his ammunition; once or twice he’d been lucky enough to bring a deer in to be weighed. But it was February; deer season was over now. “I didn’t order those,” Lewis said. “There must be some mistake.”

  He hung up the phone and sat down again in front of his waffle. Lacy lifted a large frying pan out of the sink and set it on the drainer to dry. “Who was that?”

  Lewis turned the page in his magazine. “Wrong number,” he said.

  * * *

  Matt had a hockey game in Exeter. Josie went to his home games, but rarely the ones where the team traveled. Today, though, she had asked her mother to borrow the car and drove to the seacoast, leaving early enough to be able to catch him in the locker room beforehand. She poked her head inside the visiting team’s locker room and was immediately hit with the reek of all the equipment. Matt stood with his back to her, wearing his chest protector and his padded pants and his skates. He hadn’t yet pulled on his jersey.

  Some of the other guys noticed her first. “Hey, Royston,” a senior said. “I think your fan club president’s arrived.”

  Matt didn’t like it when she showed up before a game. Afterward: well, that was mandatory—he needed someone to celebrate his win. But he’d made it very clear that he didn’t have time for Josie when he was getting ready; that he’d only get shit from the guys if she clung that closely; that Coach wanted the team to be alone to focus on their game. Still, she thought that this might be an exception.

  A shadow passed over his face as his team started catcalls.

  Matt, you need help putting on your jock?

  Hey, quick, get the guy a bigger stick . . .

  “Yeah,” Matt shot back as he walked across the rubber mats toward Josie. “You just wish you had someone who could suck the chrome off a hood ornament.”

  Josie felt her cheeks flame as the entire locker room burst into laughter at her expense, and the rude comments shifted focus from Matt to her. Grasping her by the arm, Matt pulled Josie outside.

  “I told you not to interrupt me before a game,” he said.

  “I know. But it was important . . .”

  “This is important,” Matt corrected, gesturing around the rink.

  “I’m fine,” Josie blurted out.

  “Good.”

  She stared at him. “No, Matt. I mean . . . I’m fine. You were right.”

  As he realized what Josie was really trying to tell him, he put his arms around her waist and lifted her off the ground. His gear caught like armor between them as he kissed her. It made Josie think of knights heading off to battle; of the girls they left behind. “Don’t you forget it,” Matt said, and he grinned.

  PART TWO

  When you begin a journey of revenge, start by digging two graves: one for your enemy, and one for yourself.

  —CHINESE PROVERB

  Sterling isn’t the inner city. You don’t find crack dealers on Main Street, or households below the poverty level. The crime rate is virtually nonexistent.

  That’s why people are still so shell-shocked.

  They ask, How could this happen here?

  Well. How could it not happen here?

  All it takes is a troubled kid with access to guns.

  You don’t have to go to an inner city to find someone who meets those criteria. You only have to open your eyes. The next likely candidate might be upstairs, or sprawled in front of your TV right now. But hey, you just go right on pretending it won’t happen here. Tell yourself that you’re immune because of where you live or who you are.

  It’s easier that way, isn’t it?

  Five Months After

  You can tell a lot about people by their habits. For example, Jordan had come across potential jurors who religiously took their cups of coffee to their computers and read the entire New York Times online. There were others whose welcome screen on AOL didn’t even include news updates, because they found it too depressing. There were rural people who owned televisions but only got a grainy public broadcasting station because they couldn’t afford the money it