Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (21 page)

“What?”

“It’s okay, Bea. Don’t be scared.” Her dark eyes take hold of mine, lassoing them, pulling them into hers. A memory surfaces, circles around, somersaults back to when I was a little girl in braids, in the Chicago loft . . .

We were sitting at the kitchen table. It was summertime and hot. A ceiling fan twirled above, blowing her long, wavy hair into her face as she painted a portrait of me for my dad’s birthday. “Shhhh . . . we’re going to keep it a secret, okay, Bea?”

I sat across from her, my little legs stuck with sweat on the plastic chair. I was having a hard time keeping still, and squirmed a lot.

“Baby, come on. Try and stay put. Daddy’s going to be home soon.”

But I was hot and sad; all I wanted to do was cry. I kept thinking about swimming camp earlier that day at the local Y. Cindy Pritchett passed out invitations to her birthday party during break time. All the girls were giggling, waiting, dripping, wrapped in long towels. I never got one. She passed right by me.

“You know, I never did like that Cindy girl,” Mom said out of the blue. “I don’t even know if I’d
want
to go to a party of hers. She’s so snotty.”

“But Mommy, I didn’t tell you about Cindy’s party. How did you know I wasn’t invited?”

She rubbed her forehead, smeared a splotch of yellow paint between her brows. “You didn’t?”

Dad burst into the apartment. “I got it, Bella. I got it, Beatrice.” He swooped me up into his arms. “You’re looking at the next Chair of the Art Department at the University of Michigan.” Mom joined the hug.

We started packing right then and there. The birthday portrait forgotten; Cindy Pritchett’s party forgotten . . . until now.

“Mom.”

“What am I thinking? Draw it on that paper. Draw the truth out of me. Go ahead.”

And it tumbles in like marbles . . . steely metal balls, touching, clicking—an unstrung abacus, balls hitting one another—the numbers rolling like dice on a crap table. The number three pops in my head. My hand trembles as I scratch it out. The number six, and then the number eight. I look down at the card, puzzled.

She lifts my chin, meets my eyes with hers, and I’ve never seen her face like this—so relaxed. No sign of the worry vein splitting it in two. “It’s the combination on the lock above the fridge.”

I speak without breathing. “You, too?”

She sits, almost collapsing back down on her vanity chair. “I
can’t hide anymore, Bea. I’m almost forty. I’m tired of running away from it all.”

“But . . . you knew about me,
it
, when?”

“When you left your astronomy book out on the kitchen counter. There was a very good rendering of Michael’s moustache. You knew I was thinking of him, texting him. I almost said something to you that night . . . but I wasn’t sure. And I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That it was true.”

I sink down on the bed. “But . . . Dad, I thought all this time, because he stopped drawing . . .”

“He stopped for exactly the reason he said. He had to concentrate on making a living for us. And he wasn’t a very good artist, by the way—but don’t tell him I said that.” A little laugh. “Not that he would care what I think.”

“Does he know, about you—what you can do?”

“No. He’d probably think I was drinking again.”

“So when did it happen for you, Mom?”

“When I got sober—is that when . . .”

She doesn’t have to complete the question. “Yes, yes, I thought I was crazy. Thought I was going mad.” I cover my face with her pillow.
My mom? She has this power, too? She’s the one? Why didn’t she tell me, warn me? Like, oh, by the way, you may be an addict, and may have a freaky paranormal ability. Just wanted you to know, in case it happens to you, too, when you grow
up.
I slap the pillow on my lap. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you say anything? I thought I was nuts. Don’t you think you should have said something to me?”

She stands. “I’ve tried not to think about it. I shut it down awhile ago.”

“And me with it.”

“I’m sorry. I know what a burden it is. I’m sorry you take after me. If I would have known, I . . .”

“What? You wouldn’t have had me?”

“Oh my god, no. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me—the most honest part of my life.” She pulls me into her, hugs me, almost breaking
my
ribs. “You’re stronger than me, Bea, and have found good in all the bad that’s been handed to you. I’ve hid from it. It’s why I’ve faced the wall all these years when I paint, but you, you’ve faced it straight on. You’ve given me the courage, the reason to stay sober all these years.”

I pull away. “But that wasn’t supposed to be my job, Mom. That was yours. I’m the kid; you’re the adult.”

“Fair enough.” She stands straight. “And it’s time I grew up, and about time I let you, too. So that apartment? Whatever you decide to do—live with me, near me, wherever . . . I will support you in your decision. I believe in you, Bea. I trust you.”

“You do?”

“I do. Aren’t you going to see what’s in the cabinet?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Your birthday present. You have the code.”

I bolt down the stairs, pull a chair over, dial in the numbers, and see that the scotch, the medications, the vanilla extract are gone, and instead it’s filled with journals. A half dozen leather-backed, worn journals stacked neatly in a pile. I grab one, leaf through. They are filled with sketches, amazing renderings of people, things, half-drawn objects—and Mom’s maiden name scrawled at the top of each one . . .
Annabelle Francesca Scavo.

“It’s time I meet up with that young woman again.” Her voice cracks.

Chris walks in, wearing my baby-blue terry robe and matching slippers (last year’s birthday gift). The long side of his hair is slicked down like a wet seal, and he’s holding the spritz bottle of olive oil. “What the hell, Bea. . . . I thought this was product.” The room reeks of extra virgin olive oil.

Mom’s eyes narrow at me. “Is that where it went?”

I shrug, step off the stool. “You could’ve always drawn it out of me.”

6 hours
25 minutes

I
drive home from Chris’s and see him, Sergeant Dan Daniels, following me in my rearview mirror, and laugh. Thank goodness he’s not flashing his lights. I slowly pull over to the side of the road.

Instead of license and registration, he says, “Can I buy you a pop?”

We sit in a booth at a diner—same booth we sat in over six months ago, the first time I knew I was tumbling headfirst into the
shouldn’t
storm—into his Caribbean Sea green eyes.

“So, what happened with Coach Credos? Did you check out the ceiling tiles?”

“Yes, we did. We found the booze—that’s it. He nips at the bottle, but there was nothing illegal, absolutely nothing.”

I stir my Coke with the straw, fast, creating a whirlpool in the tall glass. “But it all adds up, the eye tattoo on his neck. When I saw Junior in the hospital . . . that’s what he was
thinking about—an eye, spying. It’s what I drew.” I pull out my Moleskine and show him the letters. “Junior was trying to tell me that it was Credos.”

“I’m sorry, but . . .”

“I know he’s guilty; I know it.” I slam my hand on the table.

“Bea . . .” He puts his hand on top of mine. “There’s something else.”

“Why do I think I’m not going to like this?”

“I wanted to tell you in person that I’m looking into moving to Chicago to be closer to Max. I’m hoping to get a position at a precinct—maybe a lateral transfer.”

Oh my god, this would be so perfect . . . I could move with my mom, and everything would be okay—we’d be together. This is so friggin’ awesome!

“And”—he removes his hand from mine and rearranges the utensils, straightens the napkins on the table—“I’ve been thinking long and hard about you and me.” He leans in. “I shouldn’t be using you the way I do, your
drawing
thing. It isn’t right. I don’t think we should, um, see each other anymore.”

“What?” I push into the quilted back of the booth. “No, no!” I shake my head. “It’s okay; I don’t mind you using me. I didn’t mean what I said before—at the courthouse.”

“Bea, it’s too risky, and Detective Cole . . . he’s been asking a lot of questions.”

“Who cares about him? And if we move to Chicago, it won’t matter.”

“What? What do you mean
we
?”

“Is it because I haven’t cracked the case? Is that why?” I hold back tears.

“Bea, no . . .”

I stand. “You know, I really have to go. I have something to do. . . . Let’s talk about this later, okay?”

I run out to my car. My eyes sting, my ears are ringing, my throat feels raw.
I can’t lose him; I can’t. I have to prove to him that he needs me.

I text Archie:

ME: down with the tridge. what time are u and johnny meeting?

5 hours
45 minutes

I
pull on the baggy jeans, and don’t bother flattening my chest because I’m planning to keep the hoodie on. It’s a chilly fifty-something and going to get cooler as the night goes on. And to make the prep even easier? I don’t have to twist or gel my hair because Johnny suggested I bring a ski mask if I had one, saying it’s good to keep our faces covered because we’ll be upside down, spraying.
Upside down?

I found one in the front closet in a bag filled with mothballs, labeled ski stuff. The memory cracked me up and punched me in the gut at the same time. We went skiing, as a family . . . once . . . at Boyne Highlands resort up north. This was before my druggie days, so I had no excuse, other than being a klutz, for having to be tobogganed by the paramedics down one of the slopes after getting my skis tangled coming off the ski lift. They dug into the snow, and I fell over sideways. The next group slid right over me, and the next, and the next, until my mom’s
screaming convinced the lift operator to finally shut it down. My dad helped me to a vertical position as everyone dangled above, swaying back and forth, watching the girl dressed like the Michelin man scramble to her feet, only to fall again and slide directly into a tree.

I spent the whole day at the local urgent care, waiting for my ankle to be X-rayed, sitting, sweating in a wet woolen sweater that itched like crazy, listening to my parents bicker about who was responsible for letting me fall. It ended up only being a sprained ankle, but my ego was bruised enough to prevent me from ever hitting the slopes again.

Yeah, those were the good old days.

The face mask stinks, but I pull it on, bunch the face part up on my forehead, and I’m good to go.

We meet at Depot Town in Ypsilanti: a restored historic railroad station a couple blocks from the courthouse—the
usual place
with Daniels.

We sit, waiting for Johnny, at the side of the Amtrak train tracks running southeast toward Jackson. Spiky dandelions and splotches of grass struggle to bloom between the railroad ties.
Ballsy of them
, I think to myself,
with all the barreling trains that pass by
.

“How late did Johnny say he’d be, Arch?”

“He didn’t. . . . Said he had to talk to the coach about something.”

“Crap. Do you think he’s gonna tell Credos what we’re doing? Rat on us?”

“Nah, that’s not Johnny’s style. I just hope he didn’t screw up again. The coach has been keeping a tight eye on him—almost stalkin’ ’im.”

Junior said he and Jamal saw the stash. . . . Maybe Johnny did, too.

I kick at the dirt. “What happened that day . . . the day Junior was busted? It took Junior by surprise, right?”

“Yeah. The cops cuffed him. He was crying out, ‘
It’s not mine, I promise! The stuff ain’t mine!
’ ”

“How was the coach acting while this went on?”

Archie chews on a blade of grass. “Now that I’m thinkin’ about it . . . he just kinda stood there, his arms folded. Didn’t say much.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”

“I dunno. I try not to think about it . . . about Junior. It messes with my head when I go there.” He looks away, down the tracks, and mumbles, “Sometimes makes me want to use again.”

The sun starts to drop, casting the sky in an orangeish light—scratchy-looking, like a clump of Play-Doh, when you mix the red with the yellow and forget to put the lid back on. “What was it—your drug of choice, Archie?”

He spits out a fleck of grass. “Coke. Don’t much dig the downer feel. I need to be up. You? Did you use?” His cheeks are now flushed, probably with the rush of the memory.

I explode with a deep, guttural laugh. “Uh, yeah. I sure did. But I liked the smorgasbord—the whole enchilada.” Big exhale. “Needed to escape . . . didn’t care how—had to get outta myself, outta my head.”

“I know what you mean.” He blows through his lips. Looks around. “I don’t know where Johnny is, but we might as well do our thing, before it gets too dark. You up for this?”

“Here? We’re kind of out in the open.” I
so
don’t want Detective Cole to come squealing up in his Batmobile. Even if this isn’t his district, he’d find a way, his face all greasy with KFC or Domino’s pizza, to arrest me again . . . the last thing I need. That would seal the deal with Sergeant Daniels never wanting to work with me—never wanting to see me again.

Archie stands, hitches up his jeans. “No, not here. We’re going to the Tridge, like I told ya. We’ll train-bomb later, if we have time. You down with that?”

“Down, dude.”

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I take a peek.
Daniels.
I don’t answer.

“Who’s that?”

“No one.”

Archie tightens the straps on his backpack as we get to the entrance of the Tridge: a massive three-way wooden footbridge that spans the Huron River, connecting Depot Town, Frog Island Park, and Riverside Park. The heavily trafficked Cross Street bridge hovers above—a bridge that runs right by the courthouse.

“Hey, Arch. I don’t see any tags anywhere on the Tridge.”

“Yeah, they’re keeping it clean. Now that it’s all lit up, it’s hard to hit. The secret’s underneath.”

“Underneath?”

He jogs across the wooden slats to where the three arms connect—waves me over. “Pull down your ski mask and put this on.” He tosses me a flashlight headband.