Seconds Away (19 page)

CHAPTER 41

Spoon was right
.

I was hustled out of the room. Mr. and Mrs. Spindel were in the corridor. They rushed past me into the room. It took a few minutes, but Spoon was stable again. I thought I heard one of the nurses say something about his legs not moving, but I immediately shut that out. I couldn’t deal with that. Not now.

When I got back to the waiting room, I grabbed Ema and pulled her to the side. We found a quiet corner away from the television.

“What happened?” Ema asked. “Is he okay?”

I quickly explained about what Spoon had said—if Sunglasses and Scarface had already been at Rachel’s house when they killed her mother, why would they ask me which house it was?

“Maybe they were just, I don’t know, playing with you,” Ema said.

I frowned. “Playing with me?”

“Like a prank.”

“‘That the Caldwell house?’” I said, mimicking Scarface. “Does that sound like a prank?”

“I don’t know. Maybe when they came the first time, it was dark.”

“So?”

“So maybe they weren’t sure where the house was during the day.”

I frowned even harder.

“Lame, right?” she said.

“Very,” I said. “There’s a gate around that house. If you had managed to break in and shoot two people earlier, don’t you think you’d remember where the house was?”

Ema nodded slowly, seeing it now. “And come to think of it, why would you break in and shoot them in the first place? Let’s assume these two guys wanted the gym bag back. Wouldn’t they, I don’t know, try to beat the information out of them? What good would just shooting them do?”

“Exactly,” I added, “and if you went there to get the package back, wouldn’t you toss the place? They clearly wanted their money and drugs back. Why not search for it? Why just shoot the two people who could tell you?”

The official conclusion wasn’t making sense anymore.

“There’s more,” I said.

“Like?”

“Like how come Mr. Caldwell was all chummy with them when I saw them at the house? I mean, he’d have to know they just shot his ex-wife and daughter, right?”

“Right.” She shook her head. “We have to consider another possibility.”

“What?”

“Let’s just go back over this, okay? Rachel’s father is a drug dealer. He was willing to keep his ex-wife locked up for years to protect himself. Now she comes back. Rachel gives her mom the benefit of the doubt and steals his cash and drugs.”

Ema stopped. I stopped. It was right there in front of us, but neither one of us wanted to say it.

“He wouldn’t shoot his own daughter,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“I just don’t believe it.”

“The man drew a gun on you.”

“To protect her. Because he was worried about her.”

We pondered that for a few moments.

“It could have been an accident,” Ema said.

“How so?”

“Think about the whole scenario. Rachel’s dad finds out his money and drugs are missing. He comes home and finds, to his surprise, that his ex-wife is there. They argue. He pulls out a gun, maybe they struggle. Rachel surprises them. Maybe he shoots Rachel accidentally.”

It added up. And yet . . . “There’s one more thing,” I said.

“What?”

“What’s up with Chief Taylor?” I asked. “Why has he been hanging around Henry Caldwell? Why does he keep worrying about what Rachel will say about the shooting? Is it just a coincidence he was first on the scene?”

“Wait,” Ema said, showing me her palms in a double stop. “I mean, okay, I know we have our problems with him and Troy, but you’re not suggesting . . . ?”

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting. But Spoon is right. We have to get out of here. We are all in danger until we figure out who shot Rachel.”

CHAPTER 42

Uncle Myron was quiet
during the ride home. I expected a lot of questions and a long lecture, but because he sat with me throughout the interrogations, maybe he’d concluded that there was little more to ask.

I hadn’t slept now in more than twenty-four hours. Fatigue was setting in, making my bones feel heavy. Uncle Myron pulled the car to a stop and said, “You were trying to help a friend.”

It seemed more a statement than a question, so I didn’t say anything.

“I get it,” Myron continued. “The need to rescue people. I guess it’s genetic.”

I didn’t know if he meant it came from him or my father. Or both.

“You think you’re doing good. I get that too. But when you upset the balance . . .”

I waited. Then I said, “So you think, what, people should step back and just let things take their course?”

“No.”

“So what’s your point?”

“Maybe nothing,” Uncle Myron said. “Or maybe I need you to understand that what you’re trying to do isn’t easy. It isn’t black and white.” He shifted in his seat. “Pretend there are a bunch of figurines on a shaky shelf.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Figurines?”

“Just go with me, okay? If one of the figurines tips over and starts to fall, you should reach for it and try to catch it. But if you try too hard or dive after it too clumsily, you might knock down more figurines. You may save the first figurine but ultimately break more.”

He looked at me. I looked at him. Then I said, “I have a question, though.”

Myron grew serious. “Yes?”

“When you say figurines, do you mean like bobble-heads or those weird little Hummel kids that Grandma loves so much?”

He sighed. “I guess I was asking for that, wasn’t I?”

“Because I don’t think I’d want to save any of those,” I said. “They creep me out.”

Myron laughed. “All right, all right.”

“Don’t tell Grandma, okay?”

“Wise guy.”

We got out of the car and went inside. I started heading down to the basement when Myron asked me one last question. “Does all this have something to do with Bat Lady or your wanting to exhume your dad’s grave?”

It was a good question, and he had earned a truthful answer. “I don’t know.”

Down in the basement, I collapsed onto the bed. I had to block out Spoon. If I kept thinking about him lying in the hospital, I’d freeze up. Spoon had pushed through the pain and asked to see me for one reason. He didn’t want us to quit. He wanted us to find out who shot Rachel. Much as I wanted right now to just curl up in a ball and give up, I had to honor that request.

So what was the next step?

My cell phone rang. When I saw on the caller ID that it was Rachel, I sat up, hit the green answer button, and put the phone to my ear. Her voice was distraught and angry. “How could you do that to me?”

“Rachel?”

“There are cops all over my house.”

“Are they asking you questions about the gym bag?”

“They tried to, but my father won’t let them talk to me. Why did you do this, Mickey? Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?”

“We were trying to help. We were trying to—”

“You know what?” she snapped. “I don’t want to hear it. I just called because I wanted to know how Spoon was.”

I thought again about the look on Spoon’s mom’s face. Would I ever forget that? “I don’t know. He’s in critical condition.”

“That poor kid.”

“We were just trying to help find the shooters.”

“Who asked you to do that?”

But I’d had enough of being on the defensive. “You know the answer to that, Rachel.”

She did. The Abeona Shelter.

“We are all linked in this together. You could have trusted us. You could have told us about believing your mom and hiding that gym bag.”

“I was trying to protect you,” she said.

“And I was trying to protect you,” I said, remembering Myron’s dumb figurine metaphor. “Look where that got us.”

Silence.

“You went to Abeona for help, didn’t you?” I said.

“Yes. But Bat Lady told me to leave it alone,” Rachel replied. “Like I could. Like I could just forget what my father had done to my mother—locking her away in a loony bin for all those years. So I hid the gym bag in the locker. Just until I could convince them that this was important to me or, I don’t know, to buy some time. But I messed up, Mickey. I messed up and those two men came after my mother.”

“No,” I said.

“No what?”

“They didn’t kill your mother.”

“What are you talking about? Chief Taylor is here. He says the case against them is open and shut.”

Chief Taylor again.

“What else did he say?”

“He told us they had the murder weapon. He said the ballistics test will show a match.”

“
Will
show?” I said.

“Yes.”

“How does he know what a test
will
show?”

“Because it’s obvious?”

“They didn’t do it, Rachel. Spoon figured it out. Whoever killed your mother is still free.”

“That’s impossible.”

I started explaining all the things wrong with the official scenario. She listened in silence. When I was done, Rachel asked in a surprisingly calm voice, “Do you think my father shot us?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it could have been an accident.”

“I don’t see how. Someone shot at me from across the room, but my mother was shot with the gun pressed against her head. How could that be an accident?”

“Maybe,” I ventured slowly, remembering Ema’s theory, “your mother was shot on purpose, but you were hit accidentally.”

We fell into silence, but something was bothering me. Rachel was hit from across the room while her mother was shot in the head from very close. That made sense, of course. The shooter would have been right near Rachel’s mom . . .

So why was something niggling at the back of my brain?

“Mickey?”

“Yes?”

“I love my father.”

“I know.”

“He would never hurt me, but . . .”

“But what?”

“But he and Chief Taylor are good friends,” she said. “And they’ve both been acting so suspiciously.”

I gripped the phone a little tighter. Mr. Caldwell and Chief Taylor were friends—and somehow Taylor ends up being the first cop on the scene. That was some coincidence.

I was liking this less and less.

“I think we should talk to the police.”

“And tell them what?” Rachel said. “We’re just kids. We don’t have any proof at all. The first thing any cop will do is tell Chief Taylor.”

She had a point. “I still think it’s our best option.”

“No, it’s not,” Rachel said, her voice coming alive. It was like a switch had been flicked. “Mickey?”

“Yes?”

“Are you up for getting in more trouble?” she asked. “Because I have an idea.”

CHAPTER 43

When I got off
the phone with Rachel, I called Ema and filled her in on the plan. I wanted to get an update on Spoon, but, one, I didn’t know who to call, and, two, I didn’t want to be distracted. Spoon had made it clear: There was nothing I could do for him. I had to concentrate on finding the truth.

I had eight hours before we enacted Rachel’s idea—serious downtime that I desperately needed. My body was torn between sleep and food, and as usual, food won. As I headed up to the kitchen, Uncle Myron was watching the news on TV.

“Can I make you a sandwich or something?” he asked.

“No, I got it.”

I opened the fridge. Uncle Myron had recently purchased turkey, Swiss, lettuce, tomato, and submarine rolls. Awesome. I made the sandwich in maybe forty seconds. I grabbed an ice water and started heading back to the basement when something on the television made me freeze in midstep.

Myron saw it. “Mickey?”

I ignored him, keeping my eyes on the screen. Myron fell quiet.

The anchorman with the too-green tie was using his best “gravely serious” voice: “A sad anniversary coming up. Tomorrow morning, there will be a memorial service for Dylan Shaykes, marking twenty-five years since little Dylan, then age nine, was kidnapped from his school playground and never seen again.”

I looked at the picture on the screen. Oh no, I thought. It can’t be . . .

“The story of little Dylan made huge international headlines. His photograph was plastered on milk cartons. There were sightings everywhere from coast to coast and even in Europe. The police seriously questioned his father at the time, but William Shaykes was never arrested for the crime. Young Dylan’s blood was found in a nearby patch of woods, but all these years later, a body has never been found. So the mystery remains.”

The television screen continued to show the photograph of nine-year-old Dylan Shaykes. Little Dylan had curly hair and sad eyes. I had seen his picture—this exact snapshot, as a matter of fact—in the Bat Lady’s upstairs hallway. There had been another picture of Dylan, taken sometime later, sometime
after
his disappearance, on the Bat Lady’s nightstand.

On the screen, the female coanchor shook her head and said, “Sad story, Ken.”

“Sure is, Diane. And with no new clues after all these years, we will probably never know what happened to little Dylan Shaykes.”

But he was wrong. Because now, looking at the photograph again, I knew.

CHAPTER 44

So much for sleep.

The sad-eyed, curly-haired boy haunted my dreams. Dylan Shaykes. He had been on milk cartons and news reports. I remembered thinking when I first saw that photograph in Bat Lady’s hallway that his face was familiar. It may have been from seeing missing-children stories over the years. But I doubted it.

I checked out the news stories about what happened to us online. Maybe because we were all minors, there were very few. On our local news website, the Kasselton Patch, there was a video of a press conference with Chief Taylor announcing the arrests of Brian Tart and Emile Romero, two well-known drug dealers with prior convictions for assault and armed robbery, for the murder of Nora Caldwell and the shooting of her daughter. The chief made it clear that they now had “physical evidence that shows without a doubt” that Sunglasses and Scarface were guilty. The murder case, Chief Taylor emphasized, was officially closed.

I made a face. Chief Taylor seemed awfully anxious to put the matter to rest, didn’t he?

At six
P.M
., Rachel, Ema, and I met up on Coventry Road near the mall. I didn’t think that any of us would be able to sneak out, nonetheless all, but it worked out. Angelica Wyatt was filming a major scene today, and putting it off even a day would have cost the studios half a million dollars. That got rid of Angelica and Uncle Myron. As for Rachel, once her father declared that she would not speak to the authorities, they pretty much left her alone.

I had a feeling that there wasn’t much supervision at Rachel’s house.

“Okay,” Rachel said, “do we need to go over the plan again?”

“I don’t think so,” Ema said. “We wait by the back door until you open it. Then we sneak in. Simple, right, Mickey?”

They both looked at me. I was frowning. “I don’t like it.”

Rachel said, “Why not? It’s perfect.”

A funny look crossed Ema’s face. She got it, and in this case, it wasn’t a good thing. “Yeah, Mickey, what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want anyone else to get hurt,” I said.

That reasoning sounded hollow in my own ears and judging by the looks on both Rachel’s and Ema’s faces, it wasn’t exactly ringing in theirs either.

Here was Rachel’s plan: From her days dating Troy Taylor—first ugh—she had learned that Chief Taylor kept copies of all the important police files in his home. There weren’t many. Kasselton isn’t a town with a lot of mayhem—at least, it wasn’t until recently. But Rachel knew that he kept all his files in his home office off the kitchen. Troy the Dumbwad had explained to her early in their “relationship”—second ugh—that his dad’s office was strictly off limits to everyone, including family members.

The plan? Simple. Rachel had already called Troy and asked if she could stop by his house. Troy was anxious for a “reconciliation”—third ugh—though Rachel stressed repeatedly that their relationship had really been “nothing much” and “very minor league.”

“If it was very minor league,” I had said when she revealed this, “how do you know the layout of his house so well?”

Ema stomped on my foot at this point. I couldn’t tell whether she wanted to shut me up or whether she was annoyed with me for caring. I think both.

Anyway, back to the plan. Rachel would go into the house to “talk things out”—do I need to bother with the ughs anymore?—with Troy. She would ask to use the bathroom, slip into the kitchen, and unlock the back door for us. Ema and I would sneak into Chief Taylor’s office. From there, it’d be up to us to rifle through his files and see what we could find about the Caldwell shooting while Rachel kept Troy “occupied.”

Okay, one last ugh. “What do you mean by ‘occupied’?” I’d asked, which earned me another foot stomp from Ema.

So what exactly were we going to look for in Chief Taylor’s files? Beats me.

Ten minutes later we watched Rachel approach the front door. She rang the Taylors’ doorbell and then did that thing with her hair that some might call “fix,” but it always made my mouth go a little dry. Next to me I heard Ema sigh.

Troy opened the front door, leading with his chest, like a preening rooster. My hands, working on their own, formed two fists. Troy invited Rachel in and the door shut behind them.

“Let’s go,” Ema whispered.

We headed to the back via the house next door and then cut over into the Taylors’ yard. The truth was, I loved this idea. I loved the idea of getting into Chief Taylor’s files and figuring out what he was up to because I knew,
knew
, that he was covering up something.

I just didn’t like the idea of Rachel in there alone with Troy.

Ema and I ducked behind a bush by the back door. I knew that we were both thinking about Spoon, but we both also knew that we didn’t need that distraction right now. There was nothing we could do for him, other than figuring out who’d shot Rachel.

So that was what we would do.

I thought again about the twenty-fifth anniversary of Dylan Shaykes’s disappearance. I didn’t tell Ema about it because with everything else going on, it could wait. But the Abeona Shelter was growing murkier and murkier. First, there had been the touched-up photograph of the Butcher of Lodz. Now I had the photograph of that sad-eyed little boy to consider.

No time for that now, though. There was a sound coming from the back door—a slide bolt sliding open.

“You ready?” Ema said.

I nodded. We had agreed that we would not speak or even whisper once we were inside unless there was an emergency. Ema would stand by the office door and let me know if Troy started toward us or if anyone else came home. I would be the one to go through Chief Taylor’s desk.

When my hand hit the doorknob, a new thought hit me: fingerprints. I should have worn gloves. There was not much I could do about that now, and besides, who was going to dust for fingerprints? We didn’t plan to steal anything and if we got caught in the act somehow, no one would need to check for additional physical evidence.

I turned the knob and pushed the door. It opened with too loud a creak that made me stop. Then I heard Rachel make a horrid giggling noise.

“Oh Troy!” Rachel exclaimed in a too loud, too sickeningly sweet voice. “That’s sooo funny!”

I made a face like I’d just gotten a whiff of something that really reeked.

Rachel giggled some more. Not laughed. Giggled with a tee-hee. I confess that suddenly Rachel seemed less attractive. Then I remembered that this was just an act, an ingenious one to cover up my clumsy entrance, and she became mega-hot all over again.

Ema and I slipped inside and closed the door behind us. Rachel had already informed us that Chief Taylor’s office was to the left after we entered. I tiptoed in that direction. Ema followed. The office door was wide-open, so I just stepped inside. Ema turned around and pressed her back against the kitchen wall. From there, she could see the back door, the office door, and the corridor leading to the den where Rachel was currently tee-heeing with Troy Taylor.

Chief Taylor’s office was loaded up with trophies and plaques and citations, all involving law enforcement. Two of the trophies, featuring bronzed guns, were for marksmanship. Terrific. There were also tons of photographs of various teams Chief Taylor had coached in baseball, basketball, and football. On the far wall, there were certificates and citations from his own sporting days, including being named All State in football and . . .

Hello.

I couldn’t help it. I moved over to take a closer look. It was a “State Champions” photograph of the Kasselton High School basketball team from twenty-five years ago. There, in the front row holding a basketball, were the team cocaptains, Eddie Taylor and Myron Bolitar. Yep, Uncle Myron. The two now-nemeses looked chummy in the picture, and I wondered what went wrong.

But that wasn’t my concern right now.

I sat at Chief Taylor’s desk and worried for another second or two about fingerprints. No time. I saw a basket full of files. As I reached for one, I heard Rachel’s voice from the other room say, “Troy, don’t do that.”

There was a quick flash of rage. I got ready to stand up and go out there, but then I stopped. What was I going to do, bust in on them? Besides, Rachel seemed pretty much in control. If she needed me, she’d call for help, right?

I didn’t like it, but this had been part of her plan. If I went out there now, she’d probably kill me. Time to get back to the task at hand.

The first folder I grabbed was fairly light. I checked the right tab. There were only three words written on it: nora caldwell—homicide.

Bingo. I considered finding the file so easily a stroke of luck, but then again, the Caldwell murder was far and away the biggest case in the town. Why shouldn’t it be front and center?

Ema looked in on me. I gave her a big thumbs-up and opened the file. Paper files—talk about old-school.

The top sheet of paper read:
BALLISTICS TEST REPORT
. It was dated today.

There were three columns, one for Gun A (the one that had shot Spoon), one for Gun B (the one being carried by Scarface), and one for Gun C (the one used to shoot both Mrs. Caldwell and Rachel). There was a lot of scientific mumbo jumbo, terms like sample type, shot sequence, weapon type, projectile weight, cartridge/projectile type, impact velocity, impact energy, you get the idea. None of this would do me any good, so I skipped down to the finding: neither gun a nor gun b is a match for gun c.

Whoa. If I was reading this right—and the conclusion did not seem all that difficult to understand—neither gun was a match for the murder of Mrs. Caldwell.

This was huge.

Or was it?

While it would have been excellent physical evidence against Sunglasses and Scarface, it certainly did not prove that they were innocent. Unless you’ve never watched a television show in your life, you’d know that if you committed a crime with a gun, it would be best to get rid of it. Wasn’t that the most logical conclusion? Sunglasses or Scarface had simply replaced the murder weapon with a new one.

Except, of course, that Chief Taylor hadn’t mentioned this finding in that press conference. In fact, he made it sound just the opposite. They had, he’d said, the physical evidence to lock these guys away for the murder of Nora Caldwell.

But if it wasn’t a match on the bullets, well, what other “physical evidence” could there be? Or was he lying? And this report wasn’t a copy. It was the original. Why would it be in Chief Taylor’s private office?

From the den, I heard Troy say, “Let me get us something to drink.”

I froze.

Rachel said, “That’s okay. I’m not thirsty.”

I could hear a creak from the couch, as if Troy was getting up. “I’ll only be a second, babe.”

Babe?

“Troy?” Rachel’s voice sounded coquettish, and I’m not even sure what
coquettish
means.

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t leave me right now.”

Oh man. I had to hurry.

I paged through the next sheets until I reached one titled
MEDICAL EXAMINER REPORT
. The name on the top was
NORA CALDWELL
. There were two sketches of the human body—front and back. I skimmed it over, trying again to ignore the scientific mumbo jumbo. According to the findings, the death was due to massive injuries sustained by a bullet wound to the head. I already knew that. The medical examiner could tell by the “burn patterns” that it was a “contact shot”—that is, the barrel of the gun had been pressed against the victim’s head. Rachel had told me that too, and something about that still bothered me.

But what?

I tried to run through the murder scenario in my head. The gunman slips into the Caldwell den. He places the barrel of the gun against Mrs. Caldwell’s head and shoots her execution style. Hearing that sound, Rachel comes running into the room. The gunman raises his gun and aims it at her. . . .

Wait. Now I saw the problem.

Rachel hadn’t told me that she heard a gun blast. She told me that she heard loud voices. That was what had made her come downstairs and check out the den. Not a gunshot. Voices.

I heard a noise outside and looked out the window. A police car had just pulled into the driveway.

Oh no.

I looked over at Ema. She was gesturing for me to hurry. I waved for her to head out. She nodded and vanished. I glanced out the window again. Chief Taylor was already out of the car and starting up the front walk. He looked upset.

I heard Troy say, “Dang. My old man is home.”

As I quickly stood, I took one last look at the file. That was when I saw the words
hand powder residue
highlighted in yellow. Whoa. I risked one more glance out the window, and as I did, Chief Taylor veered off the front walk and started for . . .

. . . for the back door!

Oh man, I was trapped.

I looked for a place in his office to hide, but there was nowhere. I kept low and looked out the window. Chief Taylor was nearly rounding the back. There’d be no chance of getting out of here. Maybe I could roll out the window as he entered. I tried to open it, but it was stuck.

I’d have to bolt. What else could I do?

With all hope lost, the front door of house opened. “Chief Taylor?”

It was Rachel.

“Chief Taylor? Hi, it’s me.”

Rachel did the tee-hee again. The noise was ridiculously grating. But Chief Taylor stopped and turned toward her. “Hi, Rachel.”

“Can I, uh, talk to you for a second?”

She stepped out into the front yard. Taylor looked unsure. He glanced toward the walk to the back, sighed, and then started toward her.

“What is it?” Taylor asked.

I didn’t wait.

I turned and hurried through the kitchen and out the back door. I ran hard toward the woods in the yard. Ema had planned a meeting place. She was there waiting for me.

I was just upon her when I realized two things.

One, I now knew who killed Mrs. Caldwell and shot Rachel.

Two, I left the murder file open on Chief Taylor’s desk.