The Absence of Mercy Page 8

  Thomas went to his closet and retrieved a navy blue backpack. Inside was a fifty-foot climbing rope, a single carabiner, a nine-foot piece of one-inch webbing, a pair of leather gloves, and two short thin ropes that he’d tied into Prusiks, one slightly longer than the other. He tied one end of the climbing rope to his bed frame using a figure-of-eight follow-through, opened his bedroom window, and lowered the rest of the rope to the yard below. With the webbing, he fashioned himself a basic harness, and he clipped the carabiner in at the waist. He fastened the longer Prusik to the rope and clipped it into the carabiner for self-belay, then wrapped the rope itself three times around the ’biner and locked the device. He shoved the remaining unused Prusik into his jacket pocket to be used later for ascent, put on his gloves, and turned out the bedroom light. He took a moment to glance out through the front window at the street, ensuring that it was quiet and empty. Then he went to the side window and slid it open. Taking the rope in his right hand and placing it against his hip to serve as a break, and using his left hand to mind the self-belay Prusik, he stepped through the opening and quietly lowered himself to the yard two stories below, pausing for a moment at the top to slide the window closed as much as possible. Once he was on the ground, he unclipped himself from the rope and left his equipment in the grass for when he returned.

  The street was quiet and empty as he walked down the sidewalk, but two and a half miles away Devon Coleman was throwing a party to kick off his parents’ recent departure for their weeklong vacation in Cancún. The night was cool, and a light mist of rain had begun to fall. But Thomas felt good. After all, he was young, smart, and as far as he could tell, pretty much invincible. His gait was brisk, and he hummed softly to himself as he walked along. In no time at all he was turning onto Overlook Drive and could hear the pumping rhythm of music coming from the well-lit house down the street.

  14

  As far as high school parties went, this one appeared to be a huge success, if the throng of teenagers already swarming the place when he arrived was any indication. Devon’s parents might have a different perspective when they returned home next week, but tonight that was probably the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. Devon’s family lived in one of those big brick Neocolonial-style homes that had become so popular with the upper middle class these days. The place was 5,600 square feet, Devon had once told him—a monster—and as the street name implied, it was perched atop a hill along with another twenty-some similar-looking dwellings, all with a commanding view of Main Street and most of western Steubenville. Tonight the place was pretty well packed.

  Last week Devon had mentioned that since he had the house to himself, he wanted to have a few people over this weekend. Thomas had told him he would come, not realizing his dad was going to impose a mandatory lockdown for the rest of the year. He’d expected maybe twenty or thirty people, but as was the case with most high school parties, over the remainder of the week word traveled with the speed and dissemination of a brushfire in high wind. Judging from the masses assembled on the front lawn alone, Thomas guessed that at least half of the entire damn high school had decided to turn up. He shook his head. Just a few of Devon’s closest friends, my ass. Then again, with the combination of an adult-free party and plenty of free booze, what’d he expect?

  He saw Bret Graham standing near the front door, plastic beer cup in hand, talking with Cynthia Castleberry. Bret, who wrestled in the 152-pound weight class just above Thomas during the winter season, had asked the attractive but somewhat standoffish varsity soccer starter out twice that year, and had been turned down both times—mostly because she’d been going steady with the same guy since freshman year. If nothing else, though, Bret could be pretty damn determined when he set his sights on something.

  “Tommy boy, you finally decided to show up,” Bret greeted him as Thomas ascended the stairs leading to the front door.

  “Nobody told me you were gonna be here, Graham,” he replied. “You bothering the ladies already?”

  Bret feigned offense. “Take no notice of this one,” he told Cynthia. “He’s just upset because I remind him of what a substandard athlete he really is.”

  “That’s right,” Thomas countered. “If beer bong ever makes it to the Olympics, you’re all set.” He turned to Cynthia. “You planning on driving this guy home, or should I call his grandmother to come pick him up again?”

  She laughed. Her right hand, which had self-consciously abandoned its subtle but strategic caress of Bret’s upper arm when Thomas arrived, now returned to its previous position. “I’ll keep an eye on him, Thomas.”

  “Then he’s in good hands and I’ll tell the grandmother she can stand down for the evening.”

  “Screw you, Stevenson,” Bret said with an exaggerated bow, holding his arm out to gesture Thomas through the open front door.

  Thomas smiled and squeezed past a small congregation of six or seven freshmen standing in the front hall. Dave Kendricks spotted his entrance and motioned to him from across the living room, where he stood with Eileen Dickenson, Monica Dressler, Lynn Montague, and Kent Savage.

  “The man of the hour has arrived,” Dave announced, handing Thomas a beer. “Ladies, please wait for him to remove his jacket before ravaging him in your usual manner.”

  All three of the females in the group colored slightly and glanced away. At six foot one and 145 pounds, Thomas was lean but well muscled, the confident, agile movements of his body an amalgamation of power and grace. His brown hair, cropped short in anticipation of summer, was just a few shades lighter than the deep tan of his skin, and his green eyes had a calming, almost mesmerizing effect that made them hard to look away from once they’d set themselves upon you. In a way, he was almost too good-looking, and he actually dated far less than some of his physically flawed counterparts, as if prospective girlfriends judged themselves more harshly in his presence, and had not yet developed the self-confidence to push on nonetheless.

  “Eileen here was just telling me that she didn’t think you’d make it,” Dave advised him. “Seems the general consensus is that you’re too good for the rest of us lowly peasants.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Eileen protested. She dared a quick glance up at Thomas, then looked away, fiddling with the cup in her hand. “I didn’t say that,” she repeated.

  “Well, it was something of the sort.” Dave frowned, his brow wrinkling in concentration. “I mean, I don’t remember your exact words…”

  “I do,” Kent Savage piped in. “She said, ‘You think Thomas’ll show up? I can’t wait to get him drunk and jump his bones.’”

  Eileen blushed a deep crimson. “I definitely didn’t say that.” She shook her head in irritation and embarrassment. “I’m out of here,” she told them, and walked off toward the kitchen.

  Lynn Montague headed after her, turning back quickly to admonish the two boys. “You two are such assholes. Do you know that? Like, grow up.”

  “What? What did I say?” Dave asked, pursuing the girls with a slightly unsteady gait. Kent looked at the two remaining individuals, considering them seriously for a moment. Then his face brightened into a broad smile, the decision made. “More drinks!” he announced, arms raised triumphantly to either side, and he marched off through the crowd like a man on a mission.

  Thomas and Monica watched him go. They were quiet for a moment within their own corner of the room as the din from the party continued unabated.

  “I don’t think more drinks are the answer,” Thomas commented, placing his own beverage on the fireplace mantel.

  Monica stared down into the recesses of her plastic cup. “She didn’t say any of that,” she told him quietly. “Just so you know.”

  “Oh, I make it a practice never to believe anything either one of those intellectual midgets tells me,” Thomas assured her.

  Monica nodded, her eyes still focused on her drink.

  “So, how’s it going in Tulley’s class?” Thomas asked. “Is AP Chemistry as hard as people say?”


  “It’s not that bad. Mostly balancing equations and knowing how things react with one another.”

  “Sounds intimidating to me. My dad wants me to take it next year, but I don’t know.”

  She looked up at him. “You’re smart. You could do it, no problem.”

  “I’m smart enough to get by,” he said, “but I have to work at my classes. You’re brilliant in a way that I’ll never be. There’s a big difference.”

  He smiled down at her, and she reflexively smiled back, then shifted her stance as she tried to think of something self-deprecating to say. Such compliments often made her uncomfortable—especially coming from one of her classmates. Since the first grade, she’d never gotten anything less than an A in her classes. The mere fact that she was now studying college-level material as a sophomore in high school was unlikely to put a dent in that perfect record. She was destined to become valedictorian without even breaking a sweat. But instead of being proud of her abilities, she often imagined them as an algae-covered chain around her neck, holding her at the bottom of the ocean while on the surface her peers enjoyed the ease and social camaraderie of normality. She wondered whether Thomas, with his natural athleticism and broad popularity, ever felt the same. Somehow, she doubted it.

  “I’m a good test taker,” she finally replied. “It’s no big deal.”

  “No, you’re smart. Very smart,” he told her. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  When she shook her head he placed a hand on her shoulder to emphasize his point. The touch made her feel a little dizzy, and she had to make a deliberate effort to steady her breathing.

  “Don’t shake your head like what I’m telling you isn’t true, Dressler,” he said. “And never apologize for what you are. The only sane choice is to embrace it.”

  She looked up at him, thinking that perhaps he was just making fun of her, but his face was solemn and earnest. “Is that what you do?” she asked.

  He studied her for a moment. “I don’t have what you have. But if I did—hell yes, I’d embrace it. I mean”—he turned his head to either side to indicate the people milling around them—“look at these morons. We all envy you.”

  “Hmmm,” she responded, grinning.

  Thomas removed his hand from her shoulder, and she did her best not to ask him to put it back. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to go find the man of the house, lest he think I didn’t show up to his lame-ass party.”

  She nodded, raising the cup to her lips.

  “I’ll catch you later,” Thomas told her. He turned and maneuvered his way slowly through the crowd in the direction of the kitchen, figuring he’d probably find Devon tending bar or replenishing supplies of ice, beverages, and plastic cups for the masses. But when he got there and scanned the room there was no sign of him—although there should’ve been. People were making an absolute mess of the place. Someone had decided, in fact, to start cooking fajitas. The house reeked of booze, Tabasco sauce, and freshly chopped onions.

  Thomas moved down the hall and checked Devon’s room. The bed was mounded with jackets, but the room was otherwise empty. The door to the adjacent bathroom was shut, and he rapped lightly with his knuckles. “Yo, Devon. You in there, dude?”

  “Room’s occupied!” a female voice called back. In a quieter, more soothing tone the same voice was telling someone, “It’s okay, honey. I’ve got your hair. Go ahead and throw up if you need to.”

  Oh, man, Thomas thought, turning around and heading for the kitchen once again. In the hallway, he saw Ernie Samper.

  “Hey, Ernie,” he said. “You seen Devon?”

  “What?” Ernie looked a little stoned.

  “Devon. You seen him?”

  “No, I don’ know, man. You seen him?”

  “If I’d seen him, I wouldn’t be asking you now, would I?”

  “Oh, that’s a good point, man.” It was a small miracle the guy was still standing. Thomas started to move past him down the hall, but Ernie called after him. “Hey, Thomas. You know, I think he might be out back. I saw him smacking some golf balls or something out there.”

  “Finally, some information I can use,” Thomas called back, and proceeded toward the rear of the house.

  “Hey, bro!” Ernie hollered after him. “Grab me a drink while you’re back there, would ya?”

  Thomas reached the door leading out onto the back porch and stepped outside. In slightly more hospitable conditions, the porch would’ve been considered prime real estate at a party like this, and therefore full of people. Tonight it had been drizzling intermittently, however, and the uncovered deck was vacant. He looked around briefly and had turned to head back inside when he heard a noise—a cracking sound, like a hammer striking plastic—coming from the backyard below. He walked to the railing and looked down into the yard. Devon was standing in the grass with a golf driver in his hands, the shaft of the club resting against his right shoulder. Scattered at his feet were several balls. Two metal buckets stood half empty beside him. At the sound of Thomas’s footsteps on the porch above him, he looked up. “Tommy boy, is that you?”

  ”Yeah, it’s me. What are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like?” Devon smiled up at him, shielding his eyes against the glare of the porch light. “I’m practicing. Grab yourself a club out of the bag there and come hit a few.”

  Thomas walked down the short set of steps and joined him on the lawn. His friend’s hair was soaked and dripping, and Devon raked it back from his face absently as Thomas selected a driver from the bag, set one of the balls on a tee, and lined up his club. The house, prestigiously situated atop the very hill that provided the residents of Overlook Drive that much-coveted overlook experience, gave way to a backyard that sloped sharply down and away. About two hundred yards to the south, the open grass ended where a thick patch of woods began. Thomas pulled the driver up and back, locked his eyes on his target, and swung hard. He was much more used to swinging a baseball bat than a golf club, and although his stroke connected soundly, the small white orb sliced wickedly to the left and landed out of sight deep in the spread of trees below them.

  “Nice slice, T,” Devon remarked. He removed a tee from his right pocket, planted it into the soft earth, squared his shoulders, and swung with the practiced form of someone who may well have spent more than a few nights in this very spot pounding balls deep into his own backyard and the forest beyond. Thomas watched the ball sail through the night sky. It seemed to hang in the darkness for longer than simple physics and the gravitational pull of the earth should allow, and then disappeared into the canopy of foliage, whooshing through leaves and cracking into a few branches along the way. About a half mile south of them, a stretch of Main Street was illuminated in the pale yellow cast of streetlights. The distant buzz of passing motorists ascended the hill and reached their ears like excited children returning from play.

  “You ever pound one all the way out to Main Street?” he asked.

  “Nah,” Devon said. “That sucker’s about a thousand yards from here. Tiger Woods couldn’t hit one out to Main Street from this place. But I do try.”

  To illustrate, he set up another ball and smashed it deep into the woods. Thomas hit another one himself, although this time he got on top of the ball a little too much and punched it straight and low along the ground. It hit a tree trunk at the far end of the yard and bounced halfway back to them.

  “You need some practice, my friend,” Devon observed.

  “Indeed.”

  The two of them spent the next fifteen minutes hitting balls into the woods. The rain had stopped, at least for the time being, and the only sounds were the thumping music and laughter coming from the house behind them and the crack of the club heads striking dimpled plastic.

  “You know your house is getting totally trashed right now, don’t you?” Thomas asked after a while.

  Devon only shrugged. “Wouldn’t be a good party unless it did.”

  “You ever worry about your
neighbors ratting you out to your folks when they return?”

  “Hey, it’s one of the costs of them going on vacation,” he said. “My folks know there’s gonna be a party while they’re gone. Besides, this year I’ve got a new arrangement with the neighbors.”

  “What’s that?” Thomas teed up another ball and sliced it deep into the canopy below them. He was getting better at it already—just had to straighten out his swing a little, that was all.

  “It’s understood that nobody here drives home drunk, and the neighbors pretty much leave us alone—maybe turn the volume on their TV up a little bit tonight if the music gets too loud.”

  “Oh yeah? And how do you manage to hold up your end of the bargain?”

  “Everyone comes and leaves either on foot or by cab. No exceptions. I presume, by the way, that your cheap ass traveled by foot.”

  “I like to walk.”

  “Right. Anyway, you know Frank Dashel, who lives four houses down from me?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he operates a tow truck company. He’s got one of his rigs sitting in his driveway tonight, all set to haul off any miscellaneous parked vehicles within a half-mile radius. Either you park in your own driveway or you get towed tonight. All the neighbors have been duly notified.” He dug into his pocket for another tee. “Actually, they love the idea.”

  “So, you’ve got your own hired gun.”

  “I didn’t have to hire him. Towing teenagers’ cars is a lucrative endeavor. Nobody wants to get the parents involved, everyone wants their ride back, and best of all, they almost always pay cash.”

  “Any guilt about having your friends’ cars towed?” Thomas asked.