Free Unspeakable by Kevin O'Brien Page A

cell phone calls he made some nights, it sounded like he had a girlfriend in Seattle, Janice, who was giving him grief for accepting this surveillance assignment. Collin had heard Ian talking to her about him: “Considering his mother and what he’s been through, you’d think he’d be really screwed up, but he seems like a nice, normal kid. I feel really bad for him. . . .” After that, Collin thought about bringing a Coke out to Ian while he was on duty. But then he’d be expected to do the same thing for the rest of them. And the rest of them were jerks.
    Al, sort of the ringleader of the three, had a nasal, whiny voice. To his cohorts, he always referred to Collin as “the little faggot movie star.” Collin’s grandfather was “the old fart,” and Dee was “Old Biddy Big Tits.” Al was one to talk—with his man-boobs jiggling in those tight Izod knockoff shirts he always wore. Collin heard Al tell one of his buddies: “If you ask me, I think we’ve got the murderer right here. I say the kid offed that worthless mother of his and the guy she shacked up with.” It was hard for Collin to ignore that comment.
    Al—along with the other two cops—loathed Ian. When not bad-mouthing Ian behind his back, all they did was nap in the car. From the intercom, Collin could hear them snoring.
    His grandfather didn’t like any of them, and unjustifiably lumped Ian in with the others. “Seattle’s Finest,” he’d grumble from time to time. “They must have scraped the bottom of the barrel to come up with the guys for this detail.” At the same time, he always grudgingly acknowledged that the cops were there to protect them.
    The police still hadn’t figured out who had murdered Collin’s mother and Chance. They believed the double homicide was drug-related. All the open closets indicated the killers were looking for drugs. Chance was a dealer. It was a logical conclusion. Another, less popular theory was that it had been a Manson murder type of situation. Collin had a feeling he was a suspect in the killings—and the detectives outside were watching him as much as they were protecting him. He’d already told the police everything he’d heard in his “dream.” The “no witnesses” remark he’d overheard had the police worried about his safety.
    Two days after the murders, still in shock, Collin had spent several hours listening to recordings of suspects the police had rounded up. The anonymous voices recited what Collin had heard that night:
    â€œThe fucker’s still alive. He’s still breathing. Finish him off. . . .”
    â€œWhere’s the kid? She’s got a kid. No witnesses. . . .”
    Collin didn’t recognize any of the voices. But hearing those words again and again only made him relive the nightmare, and he’d imagine what had been going on while he lay there in his sleeping bag one flight up. According to The Seattle Times , his mother had been stabbed eleven times, including two deep knife wounds in her neck. Chance had been stabbed seventeen times, mostly in the stomach and chest. The one bullet in his face had finally killed him.
    It dawned on Collin that while all this was happening, he hadn’t done anything. At no time had he ever sat up in his sleeping bag and realized, “The killings are about to start.”
    He frowned at Al, on his iPhone, sitting alone in the Dodge with the window down. He seemed to glance back at him from behind his sunglasses. His forehead was all shiny with sweat, and he looked annoyed.
    Collin pedaled past him on his bike. Then he heard the Dodge’s engine start up. Skog-Strand Lane was a dead end weaving through the woods, with only three other houses—all secluded beachfront mansions like his grandparents’ place. Collin could see the bay through the trees. The warm sun and fresh air felt good against his face.