Lost Boy (14 page)

“Okay. Okay, but you'll try, right? You promise? You'll try. . . . Okay. I know. . . . I know. Okay. You gotta try, though. . . . Call me when you hear.” Doyle huffed and slapped his phone down on the seat between them.

Ryder's head bumped against the glass when they hit a pothole.

“Sorry. Didn't see that.” Doyle looked over.

Ryder said, “Two weeks.”

“Maybe three.” Doyle's voice dripped with hope and
goodwill. “Positive thoughts, right?”

“What about Thomas Trent?” The question had been building up inside Ryder since they'd left his mother's hospital room.

“I have no idea.”

“You said before that it was a long shot,” Ryder said.

Doyle pulled the truck up alongside a fire hydrant beside Ryder's building. “Ryder, you don't even know if this guy is really your dad. You go off and get yourself in all kinds of hot water trying to get into Yankee Stadium.”

“I was robbed and then I was desperate.” Ryder felt his blood start to boil. “If he
is
my dad, that's not even a lot of money for him. He makes that in a
week.
”

Doyle stroked his mustache. “I don't know. It
might
work.”

“Because you can't raise the money.” Ryder's words came out sounding meaner than he meant them to.

“I
can
. I know I
can.
It's just the
timing,
see? Two weeks, I mean, it's gonna take me that just to fight these guys about the name. Crap!” Doyle slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“I've heard lots worse.” Ryder stared at the street, the cars and people passing with no idea that his mom was going to die.

“We should try this.” Doyle perked up. “You never know which path will lead to success, so you try them all.”

“Did you make that up?” Ryder asked.

“No. Read it in one of those books, but it stuck with me. Come on. Let's go get you some clean clothes. You're starting to smell like my dog.”

“You got a dog?”

“Brutus. He's a Dalmatian. I'm a fireman, right? We should
pop in on Mr. Happy, I mean Mr. Starr. He might have some other ideas on contacting Thomas Trent. Maybe through the team or his agent or something. Maybe he could use the wheelchair bit to get some access. You know, play on their sympathies?”

Ryder followed Doyle out of the truck. He looked at the fire hydrant, but Doyle marched right past without noticing. They mounted the stairs and were huffing by the time they reached the top. Doyle stopped in front of Mr. Starr's door.

“You better not say that stuff about the wheelchair,” Ryder warned.

“Oh, he can insult me, but I gotta tickle his ear because he's in a chair?” Doyle wrinkled his face. “Give me a break. The guy's a crab. I don't care if he's in a chair or has a gold medal for winning the hundred-meter dash. I treat everyone the same.”

Doyle knocked, loud.

“Leave me alone!” Mr. Starr screamed even louder, enough for Ryder to wince and cover his ears. “I told you, there's no Stephen Starr here!”

Doyle shook his head and shouted through the door. “It's
us
!”

The chair whirred from within, coming closer and closer until it stopped and the lock rattled. The door swung open, banged Mr. Starr's chair, and shut again.

“Stupid door!” Mr. Starr pulled it open again, hooking it with a claw and glaring up at them. “So, they let you loose?”

They followed him into the living room. The chair spun around suddenly. “Armed robbery? You had a knife?”

“No.” Ryder shook his head violently at the craziness of the story. “It wasn't me.”

“Didn't think so.” Mr. Starr glared at Doyle. “The incompetence of these government workers never ceases to astound me.”

“See?” Doyle looked at Ryder.

Ryder sat on the edge of the couch along with Doyle and told Mr. Starr everything that happened.

Mr. Starr's eyes widened and softened as he heard the part about Doyle rescuing him from a foster home, or worse.

Ryder finished with the part about his mom and the doctor's report.

“Well, the fireman is right about one thing.” Mr. Starr's head seemed to tremble. “We need to try.”

“See?” Doyle nudged Ryder. “I'm right.”

“But you're wrong about another thing. A big one.” Mr. Starr seemed almost pleased.

“What's that?”

“You can't save her with your fireman's fund scheme. You'll never get that done.” Mr. Starr spoke with unwavering certainty.

Doyle seemed nervous, and when his phone played a tune, he yanked it from his pocket like it was on fire. “Hello? Yeah, I know. I
know
I'm on duty. Where? At the neighbor's with the kid.”

Doyle listened and his mustache quivered before he grunted and hung up. “That was Derek. Social services isn't happy with the judge's ruling. They're investigating my relationship with Ryder. Guess they spoke to the school and decided you aren't going to fit the bill as a guardian.”

“Meaning?” Mr. Starr asked the question Ryder wanted to ask, but was afraid to hear the answer.

“Derek's holding them off down at the station, but they
want to talk to the chief.” Doyle pounded a fist into his open hand and gave Ryder a grim look. “After they do that, odds are they're going to take you away.”

Ryder stared hard at Doyle. “Is Mr. Starr right? You can't raise the money? In time?”

“I . . .” Doyle's mouth stayed open, but no more words came out.

“Would you bet her life on it?” Ryder asked quietly. “Two hundred thousand dollars?”

Ryder watched Doyle's face turn red. “I can't promise. No.”

“So, that makes it easy,” Ryder said.

Mr. Starr narrowed his eyes. “Easy?”

“Yes.” Ryder had never been more certain of anything in his life. “Now we know there's only one thing we can do. We're going to Atlanta.”

“
I
can't go to Atlanta.” Doyle pointed to his own chest. “Then I really
will
lose my job.”

“Who said you?” Ryder asked.

“Well, not
you
.” Doyle huffed.

“Not
just
me.” Ryder put a thumb in his own chest before pointing. “Me and Mr. Starr.”

“Him?” Doyle wrinkled his brow.

“I don't think I can do this without a grown-up,” Ryder said. “Mr. Starr is the best choice anyway. He used to be a crime reporter. An
investigative
reporter.”

Mr. Starr's face glowed.

“Yeah, but . . . how can you get around?” Doyle threw his hands in the air.

“I think disabled people can go anyplace they want to,” Ryder said.

Mr. Starr wheeled the chair toward his bedroom without comment, motor humming. “Come on, Ryder. Help me pack.”

Ryder glanced at Doyle, who seemed totally flustered, and then he followed Mr. Starr into his bedroom. Mr. Starr instructed Ryder where to find a duffel bag in the closet and then had him pull the dresser drawers open one at a time to transfer certain clothes into the bag.

Doyle appeared and leaned in the doorway with a frown. “And what? You'll just wheel that thing up to Thomas Trent's front door?”

“If we have to.” Ryder stuffed four pairs of socks into the bag.

“I really can't go.” Doyle stroked his mustache.

Mr. Starr cranked his chair a quarter turn to look at the fireman. “We don't need you to go, Doyle.”

“You called me Doyle.” Doyle tilted his head. “And you don't sound crabby. Don't try and guilt me into this.”

“I'm being serious,” Mr. Starr said. “Ryder's right. We can do this, and, if you go meet the social services people at your fire station, we know we'll have time to make our escape. You're the distraction. I won't call you live bait.”

“But . . .” Doyle didn't finish.

Mr. Starr raised a crooked hand, extending a single finger in the air. “Ryder's right. He and I can do this. A kid with a sick old man in a wheelchair? That's as good a formula for getting to meet a sports star as anything. Not even a fireman can beat a wheelchair-bound old man and a kid.”

Doyle grinned and nodded and Ryder knew it was because that was exactly what Doyle was saying in the truck outside.
Ryder felt better that the two adults in his life right now agreed. It gave him hope.

“Do you need some money?” Doyle asked.

Ryder looked to Mr. Starr. “Do we?”

“No, but thank you. I have a credit card with a big limit because I always pay my bills on time,” Mr. Starr said.

“Can you fly on a plane in . . . your condition?” Doyle asked.

“No. But we can take a train. The Crescent line goes from New York to Atlanta every morning.” Mr. Starr advanced his chair with a little leap toward Doyle as if to challenge him. “Do you think you can keep the social services people at bay for twelve hours or so?”

“I think I can throw them off your trail.” Doyle grinned.

“Yes, fortunately,” Mr. Starr said, “like most civil servants, they're not apt to be that bright.”

“There he goes again.” Doyle threw his hands up and gave Ryder a disgusted look. “Just when I think we're on the same team.”

“We are on the same team, but for every star a team has, they've also got a bunch of third-string substitutes.” Mr. Starr stared without blinking.

“And
I'm
supposed to be third string?” Doyle shook his head. “I've heard it all now.”

“Get going, already,” Mr. Starr said. “Everyone has their role. Tell us if we're going to have to rush out of here and spend the night in Penn Station. If we don't hear from you, we'll assume we can get a good night's sleep before our trip.”

Doyle reached over Mr. Starr and handed Ryder a card he'd
taken from his wallet. “I'll be on duty until after you two take off. All my information is on this. You call me when you get there, okay?”

Ryder pocketed the card and nodded. “Please check in on my mom.” He took a deep breath. “And tell me if there's any change.”

Doyle nodded and squeezed past the chair and started down the stairs.

As the footsteps faded, Ryder suddenly felt uncertain about their plan. He looked at Mr. Starr, bent and twisted in his chair, practically helpless. Then, he looked down at his own twelve-year-old arms and legs and wondered if going without Doyle was a huge mistake.

Amy Gillory had switched her schedule and arrived in the morning. Neither Ryder nor Mr. Starr acted like anything was out of sorts. The Crescent train left Penn Station in the afternoon. When the nurse had gone, Ryder filled a duffel bag with clean clothes and his toothbrush and some toothpaste. He also took some snacks from the kitchen.

“You have the signed ball, right?” Mr. Starr had already packed his own things and had wheeled himself into Ryder's living room.

Ryder dug it out of his pocket. “I never let go of it.”