Seconds Away (14 page)

“I don’t want your help.”

She pulled away.

“But—”

“What’s going on here?”

I looked over my shoulder. A man in a business suit stood there, his fist clenched.

Rachel said, “Dad?”

As I turned toward him to introduce myself, Rachel’s father reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. He aimed it straight at my chest.

Whoa.

“Who are you?”

My knees went rubbery. I put my hands up. Rachel slid in front of me and said, “What are you doing? He’s a friend of mine!”

“Who is he?”

“I told you. He’s a friend. Put that away!”

Her father and that gun stared me down. I didn’t know what to do. I stood there with my hands in the air and tried not to shake. Rachel was right in front of me, blocking my path. Through all the panic, I felt cowardly. I wanted to move her out of the way, but I was also worried about making any sudden moves.

Finally Mr. Caldwell lowered the gun. “Sorry, I . . . I guess I’m still on edge.”

“Since when do you carry a gun?” Rachel asked.

“Since my daughter and ex-wife got shot in my own home.” Mr. Caldwell looked at me. “I’m sorry . . .” He stopped as though searching for my name.

“Mickey,” I said. “Mickey Bolitar.”

“Rachel, I don’t remember you mentioning anyone named Mickey.”

“He’s a new friend,” Rachel said, and I thought I heard an edge in her tone. Mr. Caldwell heard it too. I thought that maybe he wanted to ask something more, but he turned back to me instead.

“Mickey, I’m really sorry about the gun. As Rachel may have told you, we had something of an incident here.”

He waited for me to respond, but I gave him nothing. Was Rachel supposed to tell me? I didn’t know, so I neither confirmed nor denied that I knew about the murder.

“Someone broke into our home and shot my daughter and her mother,” he said. “Rachel was just released from the hospital, and I specifically told her not to let anyone in the house, so when I saw you two arguing . . .”

“I understand,” I said, not sure whether I did or I didn’t. The man was carrying a gun. He had whipped it out and aimed it at me. I was having trouble gathering my thoughts.

“You should probably leave now,” Rachel said to me. “I know you have basketball.”

I nodded, but I didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone with her . . . her dad? I searched her face, but she turned away and started for the door. As I passed Mr. Caldwell, he reached out his hand. I shook it. His grip was firm.

“Nice to meet you, Mickey.”

Yeah, I thought, nothing like pulling a gun on someone during your first encounter. Some “nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I said.

Rachel opened the door. She didn’t say good-bye. She didn’t say we’d talk later. She closed the door behind me, leaving her alone inside with her father.

I had started down the road, lost in my thoughts, when I heard a souped-up car slow as it approached me. I looked up and saw two scary-looking guys staring daggers at me. The guy in the passenger seat wore a bandana and had a long scar running down his right cheek. The driver had aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes. Talk about a danger vibe. I swallowed and hurried my step. The car picked up speed and kept pace with me.

I was about to veer off the sidewalk when the guy with the scar rolled down his window.

“That the Caldwell house?” he asked.

He pointed at it. I didn’t know what to say, but I figured that it would be okay to say yes because there was a security gate. I nodded.

The guy with the scar didn’t bother saying thanks. The souped-up car drove up to the gate. I stood and watched, but then Scarface turned around and glared at me again. “What are you looking at?”

I started to walk away. They wouldn’t get past the gate anyway.

I risked a look behind me and saw the gate open. Scarface and his friend drove through it.

I didn’t like this. I didn’t like it all.

The car stopped and the two men got out of the car. I had my phone out, ready to dial 911 or at least call Rachel. Warn her. But warn her about what exactly? The two men moved toward the door. Without conscious thought, I started running toward her house, but then the front door opened, and I saw Mr. Caldwell step outside. He smiled and greeted the men. They all clearly knew each other. There were lots of smiles and backslaps.

Then I saw Mr. Caldwell get into the car, and they all drove off together.

CHAPTER 30

Half an hour after
I had a gun pointed at me, I was in the locker room getting changed to try out with varsity. I could hardly wait. Now more than ever, I needed the sweet escape I only found on the basketball court. As I laced up my high-tops, my stomach started to do flips.

I was nervous.

It wasn’t as though I had any friends on the court yesterday, but I knew these guys on varsity actively hated me. From the other side of the locker room I could hear a bunch of guys, including Troy and Buck, laughing. The noise sounded alien in my ears. Would I ever be a part of that? Would I ever be welcomed?

It was hard to imagine.

I finished dressing and took a deep breath. To stall, I texted Rachel and again made sure she was okay. She said she was fine and wished me luck at the tryouts. I was about to put away my phone when it buzzed again. I figured that it was one more text from Rachel, but I was wrong. It was Ema saying good luck.

I smiled.
Thanks.
Then I added:
Guess what?

Ema:
what?

Me:
The old Nazi photograph. It was Photoshopped. That wasn’t the butcher.

Ema:
no way!

A whistle sounded in the distance. I quickly explained via text, then I put away the phone. It was time to head out on the court. When I opened up the door to the gym, it was like one of those scenes in a movie when the guy walks into a bar and everything goes quiet. All balls stopped bouncing. No one took a shot. I felt as if all eyes were on me. My face turned red.

With my head down, I jogged toward the free basket in the corner.

The balls started bouncing again, and shots started clanking off the rim. This was what I’d always longed for—to be part of a school team—and I don’t think I’d ever felt so out of place. I took a few shots, got my own rebounds, took a few more. I had to wonder how Troy and Buck were reacting to my being there. I risked a glance toward them.

Troy was grinning at me in a way I didn’t like.

“Well, that’s weird,” someone behind me said.

I spun toward the voice. It was Brandon Foley, team captain. There weren’t many people in this school I had to look up to, but Brandon, at six foot eight, was one of them.

“What’s that?” I said.

“Troy looks happy,” Brandon said. “I figured he’d be furious to see you here.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Brandon stuck his hand out. “I’m Brandon Foley.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m Mickey Bolitar.”

“Welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“Troy isn’t so bad.”

I figured that once again it would be best not to reply. Brandon took a shot. It swished through the basket, so I threw the ball back to him. We got into a nice rhythm and kept shooting. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t have to.

“Mickey?”

It was Coach Stashower.

“Coach Grady wants to see you in his office.”

He vanished. I looked at Brandon. Brandon shrugged. “Coach probably wants to introduce you to the team or something.”

“Yeah,” I said, hoping he was right. “Thanks for shooting around with me.”

“No problem.”

As I left the court, I saw Troy out of the corner of my eye. The grin looked even bigger.

I hurried to Coach Grady’s office.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

“Yes, Mickey, come in and close the door. Have a seat.”

I did as he asked. Coach Grady was wearing gray sweatpants and a polo shirt with the Kasselton Camel mascot as a logo. For a few moments, he said nothing. He had his head down, his eyes on the desk.

“Have you read this, Mickey?”

“Read what, Coach?”

With a heavy sigh, Coach Grady rose from his chair. He walked over to me and handed me the Kasselton High School student manual. I looked at it and then up at him.

“Have you read it?” he asked again.

“I’ve skimmed it, I guess.”

He moved back behind his desk and sat down. “How about the part on conduct?”

“I think so.”

“Last year, two seniors on the football team were caught drinking beers by the field. They were suspended for six games. One kid on the hockey team got into a fight at a movie theater—off school grounds. It didn’t matter. He was thrown off the team. We have a zero-tolerance policy. Do you understand?”

I nodded numbly. I thought about Troy’s grin. I thought that maybe now I understood its meaning.

“You were arrested last night, weren’t you, Mickey?”

“But I didn’t do it.”

“This isn’t a court of law. Those boys who got caught drinking—they weren’t put on trial. All charges were dropped on the hockey player who got in the fight. It didn’t matter. You understand that, right?”

“But the arrest was all a misunderstanding.”

“And your little tussle with Troy Taylor last week?”

I felt my heart sink. “We talked about that already,” I said, hearing the panic in my own voice.

“Correct, and I was able to give you the benefit of the doubt. But I spoke to Chief Taylor today. He told me that in the past week you’ve been involved in several incidents. He said you drove a car when you aren’t old enough to have a license. He said you used a fake ID to get into a club. Any of these things alone would get you thrown off the team.”

I felt the panic in my chest. “Please, Coach Grady, I can explain it all.”

“Did you do those things,” Coach Grady asked, “or is Chief Taylor lying?”

“It’s not that simple,” I said.

“I’m sorry, Mickey, but my hands are tied here.”

“Coach.” I could hear the begging in my voice. “Please don’t—”

“You’re off the team.”

I swallowed. “For how long?”

“For the season, son. I’m sorry.”

CHAPTER 31

I had to pass through
the gym in order to get to the locker room. Troy was still grinning like an idiot, and it took all my willpower not to run up and clock him. I felt numb. How could this have happened? Basketball was my life. My parents quit the Abeona Shelter and returned to the United States just so I could have a chance to play high school basketball.

Now that, along with everything else in my life, was gone.

I heard a laugh and then Troy called out in a mocking tone, “See ya, Mickey.”

“Yeah,” Buck added, “see ya, Mickey.”

I felt my anger rise up, but I knew pummeling those two buffoons wouldn’t help. Right now I just needed to get as far away from here as possible. I quickly threw on my street clothes and sprinted toward the exit.

I welcomed the outside. I squeezed my eyes shut and gulped down the fresh air. I dropped to my knees. I felt as though I was drowning and lost. I know, I know—it’s just a sport. But basketball was more than that to me. It was my center, my core. It didn’t define me, but it was what I wanted to do more than anything else. To have it snatched away like that—the grounding constant still in my life—it made my world teeter one more time.

“You’re early.”

I looked up and saw Ema. When she saw my face, her eyes widened with concern.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was just thrown off the team.”

As I told her what happened, Ema sat next to me and watched me. When I looked at her eyes—and yes, I know how this will sound—I saw kindness and goodness. They were almost . . . angelic. I looked into them and saw so many things. I drew strength from them.

Earlier, Rachel accused me of not trusting her as much as I do Ema. The truth is somewhat more complex: I trust no one as much as I trust Ema. I didn’t hide how I felt from her. I didn’t pretend that I wasn’t angry and bitter and devastated. I didn’t care what I looked like or sounded like. I just ranted, and Ema just listened.

“You try to do the right thing,” Ema said, “and this is the thanks you get? It’s so wrong.”

She just gets it. Simple as that. Here was something else remarkable about Ema: She was able, even now, to make me feel better. I flashed back to that horrible moment at the nightclub, when I was sure that Ema was going to die. There had been a knife against her throat, and I had never felt so helpless or known such fear.

Tears came to my eyes. Seeing them, Ema said, “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure something out. There has to be a way to get you back on the team—”

Without thought, I reached out and hugged her hard. For a moment she stiffened, but then her arms slid around and she gripped me too. We just stayed that way, her head against my chest, neither of us moving, almost as though we were afraid of what would come after we let go.

“Uh, what are you two doing?”

It was Spoon. Ema and I quickly released each other.

“Nothing,” I said.

Spoon looked at me, then at Ema, then somewhere between the two of us. “Studies have shown that hugging can cure depression, reduce stress, and boost the body’s immune system.”

Spoon spread his arms. “So how about a group hug?”

“Don’t make me punch you,” Ema said.

Spoon just stayed there, arms spread. “This is for all our health.” Ema looked at me. I looked at her. We both shrugged and gave Spoon a hug at the same time. He relished it, and I wondered about how starved for physical contact we all suddenly seemed.

“I do this with my parents all the time,” Spoon said. “It’s great, right?”

We all took this as a cue to let go. We sat down on a curb.

“How come you’re not at tryouts?” Spoon asked.

Ema shushed him, but I quickly explained. First I told him about the photograph of the Butcher of Lodz being Photoshopped. Spoon’s reaction:

“Well, duh. I mean, did we really think he was some weird Nazi who never aged?”

Then I told him about getting thrown off the team. Spoon’s reaction to this news was interesting. Rather than commiserating, Spoon just got red-faced angry at the injustice of it all. It was like the sweet, naïve kid was suddenly going to a dark place. Ema changed subjects.

“So did you visit Rachel?” Ema asked.

“Yes.”

“Is she okay?” Spoon asked.

“The wounds were only superficial. She has a bandage on her head.”

“But not on her face?” Spoon looked relieved. “Thank goodness.”

Ema punched him in the arm. Then we got serious. I told them all about my visit with Rachel, every detail. When I finished, Ema asked, “So what do you make of it?”

“I’m not sure. Here her mother makes these crazy accusations against her father . . .”

“And she ends up dead,” Spoon said.

Silence.

Ema stood and started pacing. “You said that Rachel started to believe her mother—about her father, I mean?”

I thought about that. “I don’t know if it was that strong. I think at some point Rachel decided that if she wasn’t on her mother’s side, who would be?”

“Okay, so let’s follow that. Rachel’s mom says the dad is a horrible man who locked her up because she knew bad stuff about him or whatever. Right?”

“I guess.”

Ema kept pacing. “Then Rachel wants to give her mother the benefit of the doubt. So what would she naturally do?”

“Look into her mother’s accusation,” I said.

“How?”

“By looking into her father . . .”

My voice faded. And that was when I saw it.

Both Ema and Spoon spotted the look on my face. “What?”

I tried to sort through the thoughts even as I spoke. “Rachel had the Abeona butterfly on her hospital door,” I said.

“So?”

“So she was working with them somehow.”

“Okay,” Ema said. “We sort of knew that. What’s the big deal?”

“When that guy with the shaved head came by the morning after Rachel was shot, the first thing he asked me was so weird.”

“What was it?”

“He said that he knew that Rachel and I had gotten close . . .”

Ema squirmed a little when I said that.

“But right away, he started asking if Rachel had given me anything.”

“Like what?” Spoon said.

“That’s what I asked. Like what. He said like a gift or package. I mean, here Rachel has just been shot. Her mother is dead. I’ve just finished talking to the police—and the first thing Shaved Head asks about is if Rachel gave me a gift or package? Don’t you think that’s weird?”

We all agreed that it was.

“So what’s your theory?” Ema asked.

“Suppose Rachel found something,” I said. “I don’t know what. Something that proves her mother was telling the truth. Suppose she found something bad about her father and then she wrapped it up in a package or something—and maybe she was supposed to pass it on to the Abeona Shelter.”

“But she ends up shot before she can,” Ema added.

“And her mother, the woman who first made the accusation, ends up dead,” Spoon finished for us.

Silence.

“We may be reaching,” Ema said. “On one level, this all makes sense. On another, it doesn’t. Rachel is still alive. Even if she doesn’t still have this gift or package, I mean, she has to know what it was.”

“Which may mean she’s still in danger,” Spoon added.

I thought about it. “We are missing something,” I said.

“What?”

“I don’t know. But something. Her father wouldn’t shoot her. I mean, come on. He just wouldn’t, even to protect himself.”

We mulled that over for a few seconds.

“Maybe it was an accident,” Ema said.

“How?”

“Maybe he shot at the mother and accidentally hit Rachel.”

That made more sense, I guess, but it still didn’t feel right. We were missing something. I just couldn’t put my finger on what. We talked some more as the skies started to darken. At some point, I realized that tryouts would be coming to an end and all the varsity guys would be walking out the door. I didn’t want to be here for that. I suggested that we break this up for the night.

Spoon glanced at his watch. “My dad will be done with work in another half an hour. I think I’ll hang with him and catch a ride.”

Ema and I walked alone down Kasselton Avenue. Behind us, the gym’s heavy doors slammed open as the varsity players started pouring out. They were laughing and smiling and had wet hair from showering and they walked a little stooped, happily tired from the workout. Seeing them made the pit in my stomach grow tenfold.

Ema said, “Come on, let’s hurry up.”

We did. I let her lead the way. She took a right and then a left, and I knew where she was headed. A few minutes later, we were at the end of Bat Lady’s street. The house was gone, burned to the ground. Only a few beams remained upright. After all these years, after all the stories to frighten children, the legendary haunted abode of the Bat Lady had been reduced to ashes. Fire marshals stood in the front yard, jotting notes on clipboards. I thought about that old record player, the old vinyls by the Who and HorsePower and the Beatles. I thought about all those photographs—the ones of Bat Lady as a hippie in the sixties, of Ashley at Kasselton High, of the sad-eyed boy with the curly hair, of all the rest of those rescued children.

All gone up in flames.

So where was Lizzy Sobek, aka the Bat Lady? Where was Shaved Head, aka I Have No Idea What His Name Is? For that matter, where was the phony Butcher of Lodz, aka the San Diego Paramedic/Arsonist?

Ema stood next to me. “Do you think it’s over?”

“What?”

“The Abeona Shelter. Did the Butcher destroy it?”

I thought about that. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s that easy to destroy a group that’s been around so long.” I moved a little to the left, so that I could look into the woods in the back.

“What are you doing?” Ema asked.

“The garage in the back. Remember?”

“Oh, right,” she said. “That’s how Shaved Head would enter.”

“And that’s how he brought me into the house to see her—through a tunnel running underground. There were corridors and other doors.”

The woods were too thick to see the garage, especially from this distance. That, I had figured, was intentional. It was supposed to be hidden.

“We need to check it out,” I said.

“What? The garage and the tunnels?”

I nodded. “We obviously can’t do it now. Maybe tonight—when the fire marshal isn’t here and no one can see us.”

I looked at her and again something started to bother me.

“What?” she asked.

“There’s something different about you.”

I spotted a dark smudge on her arm. She saw me staring and pulled down her sleeve.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

But I kept thinking about the rumors Spoon had told me, about her living in the woods, about her father being a possible abuser. “Was that . . . was that a bruise?”

“What? No.” She stepped away, grabbing at her sleeve again. “I gotta go.”

“Don’t do this again, Ema.”

“I’m fine, Mickey. Really.”

“Then how come you never invite me over?”

Her eyes, usually meeting mine, found a tree in the distance. “My parents aren’t big on company.”

“I don’t even know where you live.”

“What difference does it make? Look, really, I have to get home. Let’s text later. If we can both get out, we can come back here and try to find those tunnels.”

Ema started to hurry away. When she reached the edge of the woods, she looked behind her, as though making sure that I wasn’t following her. Then she vanished into the thick. I wasn’t sure what to do, so, as was my way, I did nothing. I just stood there like a dope. Something kept nagging my subconscious. I started combing through my mind, through recent memories, trying to figure out what it was, when I realized something.

Have you ever seen those games where you have two seemingly identical pictures and you have to find six differences? It worked a little like that. I closed my eyes. I pictured Ema from a few days ago. I pictured her from today. What was different—and why was it bothering me?

Difference One: The possible bruise on her arm.

Did I really need a Difference Two?

I stood there. Ema had been pretty clear. I should mind my own business. But that didn’t mean I had to listen. Ema, despite her young age, seemed to get out a lot late at night. So did I, but my situation was pretty grim. She also had a lot of tattoos. What parent allows that at such a young age? Sure, that wasn’t proof of anything. It was barely suspicious. But then you add in the secrecy, the woods, the possible bruise, the rumors . . .

Sometimes the loudest cries for help are silent.

I decided to follow her. Now.

Ema would have a head start, but she wouldn’t be running. If I kept my cool and moved quickly, I would be able to catch up. I tried to guess what direction she had gone in, but there really was no point. I wasn’t a tracker. Instead I ran straight ahead, looking for any signs of . . . what?

Ema, I guess.

That six-difference picture game came back to me as I moved through the thickening brush. I thought about the tattoo on the back of her neck. I remembered that there had been the tail of a snake in that area. The snake had been green . . . and now, wait, is that even possible . . . today it was more like purple.

Huh?

I kept running. Could that be it? I started to think about her tattoos and realized that they had somehow . . . changed?

But so what?

A few days ago, we had gone to Tattoos While U Wait and met with Agent, her tattoo artist. He was offbeat, sure, but I liked him. He had helped us too. So maybe she had gone back for some touch-up work.

But didn’t that usually require bandages and time to heal?

I was just mulling that over, hurrying through the brush, when I heard a sound up ahead. I ducked behind a tree and peered out. There, in a small clearing maybe fifty yards ahead of me, was Ema.

I’d found her.

She had found a small path in the woods and was following it in what I thought was a western direction. I didn’t have a compass and I wasn’t much of a Boy Scout and, really, who cared what cardinal point she was heading toward?

I stayed as far back as I could while keeping her in sight. This wooded area was actually part of the Kasselton reservoir. There were signs that you weren’t supposed to be here, but the woods were also pretty huge and unpatrolled. Because Uncle Myron can’t help but share, he told me how every fifth-grader in his day, including, of course, my father, had to collect wildflowers, identify them, and press them in a book. Most of the students found the flowers in these very woods. For some reason, Myron thought that I would find this fascinating.