The Winter of the Robots (5 page)

“You kids are Panthers,” he said, pointing at my chest. I looked down.

“Oh yeah.” I was wearing my school sweatshirt.

“I went to Wellstone, too,” he said. “Back then it was called Stinson, but Panthers are Panthers. Hear us roar!”

“Hear us roar,” I agreed. I knew where I knew him from—he was the guy from the excavation place. I remembered his snow tennis game with the lumberyard next door.

“Dan Clouts,” he said. “Clouts and Sons.”

“James Knox. This is Oliver.”

“If you kids are Panthers, you’re all right by me.” He paused. “Hey, you must know that missing kid?”

“Yeah.”

“Was he a friend of yours?”

“We’re in the same classes. He was the last one to see him.” I pointed at Oliver, who was shaking his head furiously. He wanted me to shut up.

“Holy cow,” said Dan. “I’m sorry about your friend, guys. I hope he’s OK.”

“Me too.”

Suddenly a man got up at a different table. He was a
young guy, tall and muscular, wearing denim coveralls from a service station. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark rings. He looked at Oliver and me, then at Dan, then at me again.

“What do you know about Dmitri?” he asked.

I gulped. “Nothing.”

“So you don’t need to talk about him.” He sat down again, his friends nodding.

“Your burger’s getting cold,” said Oliver in a low voice.

“I’m letting it cool,” I whispered back.

“It’s cool now. Eat it so we can go.”

I ate the burger quickly, barely tasting it. I didn’t realize until the last bite that it was much better than the ones at Sam’s.

“I’m done,” I told Oliver, stuffing the last bit of burger into my mouth. He was finished with his and looking out the window. A train was chugging by, so the cars on First Street were backed up.

The place had gotten so busy, Sid hadn’t had a chance to drop off the check, but Oliver took some bills from his pocket and counted them out. He could remember the prices of things, compute sales tax, and add it all up in his head. He reached down.

“I forgot my backpack,” he said.

“Oh. Mine too.” We’d been in such a hurry, we’d left them back on Half Street, the straps threaded through the fence. We’d have to go back, and this time it would be dark.

It was even colder now, too, with a harsh wind blowing. We started down West Bank Road, but Oliver stopped.

“I can’t go back there,” said Oliver.

“You don’t have to. I’ll get both bags.”

“I’ll wait here,” he said.

I trudged on alone, in the dark. West Bank Road was brightly lit, but once on Half Street I was plunged into darkness. I knew when I was there by the gleam of moonlight on the fence, and it took some groping around in the dark to find the backpacks.

I worked my own backpack free easily. I hadn’t pulled the strap through the clasp; I’d just tied the two ends in a clumsy square knot. I pulled the other strap over my shoulder and went for Oliver’s backpack.

There was a flash of blue light beyond the fence, low on the ground. I stared ahead, seeing nothing in the blackness of the old dump other than the glint of moonlight on snow and metal. I couldn’t imagine what that flash might have been. I wanted to be out of there, ASAP.

I fumbled at the strap of Oliver’s backpack. He’d redone the clasp, and I realized I’d have to take off at least one glove and let my hands get chapped raw in the wind.

The light flashed again, and then a steady yellow beam shone right at me. As I worked the bag free, there was a scrape of metal near the gap in the fence. I turned and ran. It was awkward, swinging two backpacks and trying not to
skid and fall on the packed snow. There was a flash of blue light at my heel. I tried to run faster, my chest aching as I took in deep breaths of freezing air. I didn’t slow down until I reached the concrete pylons at the start of Half Street.

Oliver was waiting for me in front of the restaurant, jumping up and down to keep warm. He looked like the neon kangaroo hopping along behind him. The same shabby man watched us warily through the window of the Laundromat, like he knew we’d been up to something.

We walked briskly, neither of us talking. I didn’t tell him what happened. Even if I could work my half-frozen jaw, I wasn’t sure what
had
happened.

“Want to come in and thaw out?” he asked when we got to his place. All I could do was nod. When we came in from the subzero cold, the warm house felt like a sauna. I kicked off my snow mocs and unzipped my coat.

“Is that you?” Oliver’s mom called from the kitchen.

“Yes!” Oliver called back.

“Both of ’em,” said a man sitting in the recliner.

Oliver peered blindly into the living room through foggy glasses. “Peter?”

Peter Clayton was Oliver’s mom’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. They were supposed to be off-again for good a few months ago, but here he was.

“Hope you’re hungry,” said Peter. “Your mother’s making tacos.”

“Great,” said Oliver. His mom couldn’t have known he’d come home with a stomach full of hamburger and
cheese. He took off his glasses and huffed on them, pulled out a tail of his flannel shirt to wipe the lenses.

Oliver’s mom came out of the kitchen. “So where were you two?”

“Working on Jim’s science project,” said Oliver.

“Well, you could have checked in,” she said. “With that other kid gone missing …”

“Of course. I’m sorry,” said Oliver. “We didn’t expect to be gone so long.”

“Your parents are worried, too,” she told me. “Your father called.”

“OK.” I felt a sense of impending doom. “I better go.” I zipped up my coat and dug out my hat and gloves.

“Let me drive you. It’s cold out there.” Peter got up and grabbed his coat and hat. “Be right back, Ellen!” he hollered to Oliver’s mom.

His car was an Audi A7. It started up quietly, even in the bitter cold. The dashboard lit up, soft and blue. The seats were heated. An iPod Touch was cradled in the center, playing a sixties song. Peter drummed in time on the steering wheel.

“Nice ride,” I said.

“I splurged,” he said. “Only way a California boy like me can get through these winters.”

Peter taught engineering at the U, but according to Oliver he was loaded, with patents and high-tech stocks. For that matter, Oliver was loaded. Oliver’s parents and Peter all used to work together.

I gave him my address, and he headed up Victory Drive. He drove slower than he had to.

“Ellen told me you and Oliver know this missing boy,” he said.

“Not that well.”

“But he visited Oliver just before he went MIA?”

“Yeah.”

“Does this have anything to do with you and Oliver disappearing for a few hours just now?”

“No,” I lied.

He turned onto my street, pulled over, and turned off the stereo.

“I noticed the way you cringed when Ellen said your dad called.”

“I cringed?”

“I couldn’t help but notice. I think maybe you’re in more trouble than you’re admitting.”

My dad has a short temper. He yells a lot, and sometimes he goes off the rails. He hollered at me for over an hour once because of spilled ketchup. Another time the police came: I’d been on the computer when I was supposed to be watching Penny, and he’d made so much racket the neighbors called.

It wasn’t just me. He’d blown up at neighbors for letting their dogs crap on our lawn. He’d gone off on clerks at stores and attendants in parking lots. He’d gotten out of his car to confront drivers at red lights. After he lost his job at the security company, he started taking anger-management classes. He reads books and does homework. He’s gotten better.

I wondered if Peter knew all that from Oliver or just figured out I was in deep doo-doo? He was a smart guy.

“I’m not trying to bust your chops,” said Peter. “Oliver is like a son to me, and you’re his best buddy. I care about you guys. So I just want to know if everything is cool.”

“It is. We’re totally cool. But thanks.”

“I know you’re good kids, but back in L.A., I saw some good kids get mixed up with bad stuff, you know?”

“Yeah, but we’re not mixed up with anything.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime,” he said.

Mom and Dad were waiting for me in the living room.

“Nice of you to drop by,” said Dad.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. I hung up my coat, glad I had a reason not to look at him. “I was working on a school assignment and was gone longer than I thought. I forgot my cell phone at home.”

“Well, since that other kid went missing, it’s not a good idea to forget your cell phone, or not bother calling,” he said. “Parents get ideas.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“He’s safe. That’s what matters,” said Mom. She gave me a hug.

“Find a way to call,” Dad said. “Borrow a cell phone. If you can find a pay phone anymore, call collect.”

“OK.” I started for the stairs.

“Not so fast,” said Dad. I stopped. “I need to talk to you about the storage shed.”

“What about it?” I asked, hoping that it was what an innocent person would ask.

“The security cameras,” he said. “I’ll show you. Let’s go.” I went up the stairs, my legs like Jell-O. Dad was right behind me.

We went into the office. He got on the computer and navigated to the website for the cameras. I felt a surge of panic, not remembering if I’d logged out last time.

I must have. The log-in window appeared; Dad entered his own info and clicked through to a list of a half dozen cameras, each showing a thumbnail view of our house from a different angle. I didn’t know he had the place wired, but I should have known.

“Here,” he said, clicking one. I saw a dirty white hill. “This camera is hidden in the trunk of the cherry tree. It’s the only one with a view of the shed. You dumped snow in front of it. It can’t see jack.”

It couldn’t see Jim, either, I realized. Otherwise, I would be toast. I’d piled the snow up in front of the tree the day before I stole the cameras.

“I didn’t know it was there,” I told him.

“I guess you couldn’t,” he said. “But I need you to clear a path.”

“Will do.” How many times would I have to shovel the same snow? I wondered.

“I have a lot invested in that equipment,” he reminded
me. “I cashed out my retirement to start this business. It was the only way to keep this family afloat.”

“I know.”

“Good. That’s all.” He closed the browser without logging out. “Do you need dinner? Your mother made tuna casserole.”

“I already ate.”

“All right. You probably have homework,” he said. He left the office.

I went back to the camera site. Dad was still logged in, so I checked out his other cameras. I watched clips of me shoveling the walk, of me and Penny building a snow fort.

I glanced back at the door and decided it was safe. I logged out of the site as Dad and logged in as me. There were no new clips.

There was a noise behind me. I closed the browser window—too late, because whoever was there could have seen it already—and turned around. Dad was back.

“Phone call for you,” he said, handing me the receiver. “It’s the police. They found the missing kid from school.”

The officer asked a lot of questions: Did I know Dmitri? How did I know him? Where did we go to school? I answered as best I could. Dad waited, listening to my end of the conversation.

I had plenty of questions, too—like where did they find him, and how was he doing, and did he have any digital cameras in his pocket. Not that I would have asked that last one with Dad hovering nearby, but I didn’t really get a chance to ask
anything
.

“Do you know a man named Theodore Whaley or Ted Whaley?” the officer asked me.

“Nope.”

“You’ve never met or heard of a Ted Whaley?”

“Never.” Why did she think asking the question in a slightly different way would get a different answer? “Who is he?”

“He’s a person of interest in this case,” she said mysteriously.

“Am I a person of interest?” I asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Why?” Even if they’d found Dmitri with one of the cameras in his pocket, they wouldn’t be able to trace it back to me. Could they? And was it technically stealing if you took something from your own house?

“Dmitri Volkov asked for you,” she said after a long pause. “He wants to see you and a boy named Oliver Newton. Do you have any idea why he’d want to talk to you two?”

“No.”

“Well, if you want to see him, he’s at North Memorial, Room 508. And if you think of anything else you forgot to tell me, please give me a call.” She gave me two numbers, which I scribbled on a Post-it pad.

I had to sit through another mini-interrogation with Dad, who was as skeptical as the cop that I didn’t know why Dmitri wanted to talk to me.

The next day was Saturday. Monday was MLK Day, so I had a three-day weekend. All I wanted to do was sleep until Tuesday morning, but Dad woke me up before nine.

“Oliver’s here,” he said.

“Who?” At first I thought he said “the officer’s here,” because I’d been interrogated all night in my dreams.