Seconds Away (16 page)

CHAPTER 33

Ema and I talked
a bit more. I suggested that we should try to meet up at Bat Lady’s house later and see if we could find a way into the garage and the tunnels. Ema wasn’t sure that she could make it.

“When my mom’s not around, it’s pretty easy to sneak out. But when she’s around, like now . . .”

“I get it.”

“Mickey?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry about this thing with the basketball team.”

“Thanks.”

It was funny how the mind takes weird, circuitous routes sometimes. Do you ever start thinking of something odd and try to trace back to what started your thought process and really, your mind is going all over the place? That was what was happening, so here was the trail my brain took: When Ema mentioned basketball, I tried to push the thought away, but the one thing that would help me escape the pain of getting thrown off the basketball team would be . . . well, playing basketball. That made me think of the last time I played basketball, which made me think about playing yesterday in Newark, which made me think about Tyrell Waters and what he might be doing, which made me think about his father, Detective Waters, which made me think about the ride home, which made me think about two things about Detective Waters:

One, he was working on busting a drug ring in Kasselton.

Two, he had known that Mr. Caldwell’s first name was Henry.

How would he know that—and were those two things related?

In fact, Detective Waters had asked me a bunch of questions about the Caldwells, trying very hard to sound casual. At the time I figured that he was just naturally curious about the shootings. But now I remembered what Tyrell had said—that his father probably would have been the one investigating the Caldwell shooting except he was busy “working on this big drug ring in your hometown.”

“What is it?” Ema asked.

I quickly explained about Detective Waters. Ema, as always, got it immediately.

“You have to ask him more about it.”

I agreed, but it was getting late. I texted Tyrell to see if he was at the courts. He wrote back that he wasn’t because his high school team, Weequahic High, had started practice today. Then Tyrell added:
Can you get down here quick? We need people to scrimmage.

Damn, there wouldn’t be time. Even if I ran to the bus stop, it wouldn’t leave for another half hour and then the ride down . . . no way. I was showing the message to Ema when suddenly I heard footsteps coming down the stairs toward us. Ema stiffened. For a moment I thought that she was going to tell me to hide, but as the footsteps got closer, her face softened.

“Miss Emma?”

I recognized the British accent. It was Niles the butler.

“I’m here, Niles.”

Niles entered the room. He was one of those guys who probably never showed emotion on his face—stiff upper lip and all that—but he stared at me as though an elephant doing handstands had suddenly materialized in the basement.

“Niles, this is my friend Mickey.”

“We’ve met,” I said, standing up.

Once the surprise was off Niles’s face, he couldn’t have looked more pleased. “A visitor!”

Ema frowned. “Yes, Niles.”

“How marvelous. We don’t get many visitors, do we, Miss Emma?”

“You don’t have to look that shocked, Niles.”

“This isn’t shock, Miss Emma. This is delight. Will our guest be staying for dinner?”

“No,” Ema said. “In fact, Niles, can I ask you a really big favor?”

“Of course.”

“Can you drive us to Newark?”

CHAPTER 34

When Niles pulled
to the front of the driveway in a lime-green Volkswagen Beetle, I felt relief. I was afraid that maybe we’d be driving down in that stretch limousine and I could just imagine the ribbing I’d deservedly take if I showed up to play basketball in that. Still, the lime green was a tad conspicuous and I asked Niles to drop me off two blocks away so I could walk.

“Why are we here again?” Niles asked.

“Mickey has a big basketball game.”

“And he came to your abode looking for a ride?”

“I’ll explain later.” Ema turned to me. “Have fun at your game. Niles and I will wait here.”

Niles said, “We will?”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “I can get a ride back.”

“No, no, we wouldn’t dream of it,” Niles said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Miss Emma can entertain me by telling me how you two know each other.”

Ema rolled her eyes. I got out of the car and jogged toward the school. Tyrell greeted me at the door. He wore a white basketball uniform with the word
Weequahic
across the chest. “You guys are red,” he said, tossing me a red pinny to throw over my shirt.

The scrimmage between Weequahic High and whatever stragglers they could find was already in the final quarter. I quickly checked the stands. Yep, Mr. Waters was there. I gave him a little wave and he nodded back. During the next time-out, I entered the game. I saw Tyrell laughing it up with his teammates and felt my face start to burn. Tyrell’s team put their hands in as one and shouted, “Defense!” and then broke. They were teammates. Tyrell liked playing with me in pickup games, but this was different. This was his school team. This mattered.

How could I have blown my chance?

I still had my junior and senior years, but they seemed so far away, impossible to imagine now. Maybe Mom would get better and we could move someplace else and I could start again—but she couldn’t leave rehab for another six weeks. Maybe Dad . . .

Maybe Dad what?

I had trouble concentrating on basketball. I kept thinking about my father, supposedly in that grave out in Los Angeles, and I wondered whether I’d ever get the chance to know for certain. Usually I forget all that while I play. But not today.

I didn’t play well. We stragglers got crushed and for the first time in my overly competitive playing life, I didn’t care. I just wanted to get to Mr. Waters and ask him about Henry Caldwell. The sound of the final buzzer was merciful. I got in line and shook hands with the other team. When I reached Tyrell, he said, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Tyrell frowned at me. “Then why aren’t you at tryouts today?”

“I got kicked off the team.”

“What?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Oh man, Mickey, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be fine,” I lied.

“Hey, Tyrell.” It was one of his teammates. “Coach wants a quick meet.”

Tyrell looked at me warily. “We’ll talk about this in a few minutes, okay?”

He jogged away with his teammate. I started to wonder about how to approach Mr. Waters and what exactly to say to him, but there was no need. As soon as Tyrell was out of sight, he hurried over to me.

“How are you, Mickey?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“How is your friend Rachel?”

No beating around the bush this time.

“She’s better.”

“I heard they released her.”

“Yes, I saw her earlier today. I even met her father.”

That piqued his interest. “How is he handling all this?”

Should I tell him about Mr. Caldwell pulling a gun on me? I wasn’t sure, so I decided to keep it simpler. “He seemed very much on edge.”

“On edge how?”

“Jumpy.”

“Jumpy how?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Easily startled. Maybe a little scared. You can’t blame him, I guess. His ex-wife was just murdered. His daughter was just shot.” I tilted my head. “Mr. Waters, can I ask you a question?”

He didn’t say yes but he didn’t say no either.

“How do you know Henry Caldwell?”

Waters didn’t seem to like that. “Who said I know him?”

“When you drove me home yesterday, you asked me how Henry was doing. How did you know his first name?”

His eyes hardened.

“Mr. Waters?”

“It’s not important, Mickey.”

“Are you investigating him?”

“That isn’t your business.”

“Rachel is my friend.”

“And what? You’re going to find who shot her?” He arched an eyebrow. “This isn’t a game, Mickey. These people play for keeps.”

“What people?”

He shook his head and suddenly he wasn’t the nice father anymore—he was the tough cop. “I’ll ask the questions. When you were at the Caldwells’ house, did you see anybody else?”

“Like who?”

“Just answer the question.”

“No, there was just Rachel and . . .” Then I remembered it. “Wait, there were two creepy guys talking to Mr. Caldwell right after I left.”

“What did they look like?”

“Like, I don’t know, street punks. One had a bandana on his head and a scar on his cheek.”

Mr. Waters swallowed when I said that. He grabbed his smartphone and started pressing some buttons. “Is this the man you saw?”

He showed me the picture on the phone. No doubt about it. It was Scarface. “Yeah, that’s the guy. Who is he?”

Mr. Waters’s face fell. “He’s a very bad man, Mickey.”

“But who is he?”

“I want you to stay far away from him, you hear? You wouldn’t believe the evil he’s capable of.”

If Mr. Waters was trying to scare me, it was working. “Did he have something to do with what happened to Rachel?”

But Mr. Waters was having none of that. “You stay out of this, Mickey.” There was anger in his voice. “I’m not going to tell you again. Stop playing around or someone is going to get hurt.”

CHAPTER 35

I
didn’t wait around
for Tyrell because I didn’t want to get into the whole getting-kicked-off-the-team mess. Mr. Waters remained firm with me. “If you see or hear anything, you call me. Here’s my number.”

He started to hand me his card again, but I took out my wallet and showed him that I still had the last card he’d given me. “I also plugged your number into my phone contacts,” I said.

“Put it on speed dial,” Mr. Waters warned me for the second time now.

I hurried back down the block. The lime-green Volkswagen Beetle stuck out like, well, like a lime-green Volkswagen Beetle. When I slid into the backseat, Ema said, “How was your game?”

I gave her a curious look as my cell phone buzzed. Ema made a big production of staring hard at my eyes, then at my phone, and I got the message, so to speak. I picked up the mobile and saw that I had text from her:
don’t say anything about shooting in front of Niles. he’ll worry. let’s talk later and try to sneak out to Bat Lady’s tunnel tonight. just talk dumb stuff now, like you’re a typical boy obsessed with sports.

I frowned at her. She shrugged.

“Yes,” Niles said, pulling away, “how did your important basketball game go?”

“Great, thanks.”

“It was a very short game, wasn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said.

“And I had no idea Miss Emma was into helping facilitate your basketball prowess by having me drive down here.”

“Yeah,” I said. “She’s a big, uh, facilitator.”

“Miss Emma is just full of surprises today,” Niles said, turning onto Route 280. “And I guess I’m supposed to just believe every word she says.”

“Niles,” Ema said.

“No, no, Miss Emma, I am merely a servant. You owe me no explanation.”

I texted Ema:
Niles isn’t buying it.

“Ya think?” Ema said to me, not even bothering with the text.

In the driver’s seat, Niles smiled.

We stayed silent for the ride home. Niles dropped me off at Uncle Myron’s house. I sat in the kitchen and tried to sort through the last day. Nothing came to me. I grabbed the phone and dialed my mother’s rehabilitation center. I asked for my mother’s room. “Please hold.”

Two rings, a pickup, and a heavy sigh. “You know you can’t talk to her, Mickey.”

I did know. Mom had had a “relapse”—in short, she had taken drugs again within hours of her earlier release—and was now being isolated. The woman on the other end of line was Christine Shippee, the head of the rehab center. “I just want to hear her voice,” I said.

“You know I can’t do that.”

I did. But I missed her, especially now when it felt as though everything was caving in on me again. Before my dad died, Mom had been so vibrant, so wise and wonderful—I’d have called her the perfect mother, but many of us think that, don’t we?

“How is she?”

“You know I can’t answer that either.”

“What can you answer?”

“I’m pretty good at math.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Christine Shippee said. “How are you, Mickey?”

“How do you think I am?”

“You don’t sound good.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Your uncle.”

I frowned. “What about him?”

“I know you blame him for a lot, but he’s not a bad guy.”

“Thanks.”

“Cute too.”

“Well, that changes everything,” I said.

“Talk to him, Mickey.”

Christine Shippee hung up then. I stared at the phone and frowned. I tried not to think about what my mother might now be going through. I had tried to be there for her. I had gotten a job and supported us. I had dragged her home from bars, motels, and trailers. I had cleaned her off. I had made her shower and dress and get out of the house, all in the hopes that she would pull out of her nosedive. But that just wasn’t happening. I was, according to Christine Shippee, an enabler. I wasn’t so sure, but I decided to listen to the supposed expert. So now, much as it went against every innate tendency in my body, I let her be.

Except, well, when I weakened and called. Like this.

The front door opened. “Hello?” Myron shouted. “Mickey?”

“In the kitchen,” I said.

Uncle Myron hurried in with an expectant smile on his face. “So how was basketball?”

My gut reaction, I’m not proud to say, was to lie. I didn’t want to get into it. I didn’t want to have Uncle Myron lecturing me about all the wrong I’d done or, worse, looking at me with pity. But I didn’t have the strength to lie and he’d know soon enough.

“I got thrown off the team.”

The look was closer to shock than pity. “What? What happened?”

So I sketched it out for him, awaiting the inevitable I-told-you-so, you-knew-the-rules, what-did-you-expect—but that didn’t happen. Uncle Myron’s muscles began to tighten. When I mentioned Chief Taylor’s involvement, I saw the vein in his neck start to throb in anger.

Once I finished, there was silence. I was okay with silence. Uncle Myron wasn’t. He was one of those guys who couldn’t stand quiet, who constantly had to interrupt it because quiet made him feel uncomfortable. But right now, he stayed silent, unmoving, and for the first time, I could see what must have made him such a great basketball player. There was a fury in him now, one that made even me want to step back. His eyes had gone dark, and he had a look on his face that not only challenged the world but knew he could whip it.

“Ed Taylor,” Uncle Myron finally said between clenched teeth.

“It’s okay,” I replied, which was dumb to say on several levels, not the lowest being that it was totally untrue.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Who? Wait, with Chief Taylor?”

He didn’t reply.

“Please don’t,” I said. “This is my battle.”

“With Taylor?” He shook his head. “No, it’s mine. You’re just an innocent bystander caught in the line of fire.”

“It won’t make a difference. I broke the rules. Coach Grady made the call, not Taylor.”

Uncle Myron didn’t reply.

“Myron?”

“Do you remember what you asked me yesterday?” Myron asked.

For a second I was confused by the shift in topic. But then I remembered. “About exhuming my dad’s body?”

“Yes. Why do you want to do that?”

“I told you.”

“For closure.”

“Right.”

Uncle Myron shook his head. “You can’t just exhume a body for reasons like that. There are strict regulations. That particular cemetery doesn’t grant any exhumations. Even if they did, we’d need to get the permission of the next of kin. That would be your mother. Do you want to ask her to sign a certificate like that right now?”

I could feel my hope deflate. “No.”

“So let me ask you again. Why do you want to exhume your father’s body?”

I shrugged. “What difference does it make now?”

Myron seemed to be weighing his words on a hand scale. “Because there is a chance I can get it done.”

“How?”

“I have this friend. This very well-connected friend . . .”

“Angelica Wyatt?”

“No.”

I almost asked him whether he knew about Ema, about Angelica Wyatt having a daughter, but I knew that there was some secrecy regarding her identity, and I didn’t want to say anything I shouldn’t.

“So who?”

“You don’t know him. He’s the friend who asked me to watch Angelica.”

“He can get Dad’s body exhumed?”

“If I really push it, yes, he can do it. But I need to know your real reason, Mickey. I would go out on a limb for you for no reason. I can’t ask my friend to. You get that, don’t you?”

I nodded. We sat at the kitchen table. It had been updated within the last five years, but again, this was the kitchen of my father’s childhood. Dad had spent countless hours here with his family. It was a simple thought and yet, for a moment, it overwhelmed me.

“I’m not sure Dad is in that grave.”

Uncle Myron opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I don’t understand.”

“I know it sounds crazy,” I said, “but I need to know for certain that Dad is in that coffin.”

Myron blinked twice. “Do you have reason to believe he’s not in there?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I couldn’t go into the sandy-blond paramedic. For one thing, Myron would never believe me, but even if he did, both Bat Lady and Shaved Head had warned me not to tell Myron. I also knew that my father never told Myron about Abeona. There had to be a reason, right?

“Mickey?”

I met his eye and held it. “Yes,” I said. “I have a reason.”

Then Myron caught me off guard with his next question. “Does this have something to do with the fire at Bat Lady’s house?”

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

“I told you. Your father visited that house. It changed him. Now suddenly you’re drawn to it too.” Myron leaned a little closer to me. “Have you met the Bat Lady?”

“Yes,” I said before I could stop myself.

“What did she say to you?”

I shook my head, remembering the warnings. “Please, Myron. Please ask your friend to help us.”

“I need to know more.”

“Can’t you just trust me on this?”

“That’s not the issue. You know that.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, but Myron’s cell phone buzzed. He checked a text message and sighed. “It’s Angelica. I have to go. We aren’t done with this, okay?”

“Okay.”

He rose and looked at me as though he were seeing me for the first time. “Mickey?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll talk to my friend. I’ll try my best to help you.”