Текст книги "Shelter"

Автор книги: Harlan Coben

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

chapter 6

SLEEP DIDN’T COME easily that night.

I thought about Bat Lady. I thought about Ashley. But mostly I thought about my mother coming home in the morning. At seven A.M., Myron drove me to the Coddington Rehabilitation Institute. The drive was only about ten minutes, but it felt ten times longer. When we arrived, I jumped out of the car before it even came to a stop. Myron called out to me that he’d wait out here. I waved thanks in mid-sprint.

The security guard nodded and called me by name as I flew by him. Everyone here knows me. I visit my mother every day, except when their protocol doesn’t allow it.

Christine Shippee owned the place, but she also liked to work the front desk. Her facial expression was permanently set on grumpy, peering intensely at everyone through a Plexiglas window. I nodded at her and rushed through a lobby that reminded me of a fancy hotel. I stopped at the entrance so she could buzz me right in. She didn’t. I walked over to where she sat.

She studied me for a moment. “Good morning, Mickey.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Shippee.”

“Big day,” Christine said.

“Yep.”

“I’ve warned you all about the pitfalls.”

“You have.”

“And I’ve told you how the chances of relapse are somewhat high.”

“Several times.”

“Super.” Christine Shippee looked at me over her reading glasses. “Then there’s no need to repeat myself.”

“None.”

She gestured with her head toward the door. “Go. Your mother is waiting.”

I tried not to break into a sprint again, instead doing a little gallop down the corridor. When I entered her room and saw my mother, I broke into a smile. She looked great. For the past six weeks, she had been locked up in this place, detoxing, doing both group and individual therapy, taking pensive walks, exercising, eating right.

The day before Myron brought her here, my mother had gone out late to a seedy bar to get a fix. I used my fake ID—yes, I have a very good one—to get into the bar. I found her with a skuzzy guy, both half passed out, looking like something a cat had spit up.

Now the poison was out of her system. She looked like, well, my mom again.

Kitty—she wanted me to call her that for some reason, but I never did—hugged me and then she took my face in her hands. “I love you so much,” she said.

“I love you too.”

She winked and gestured to the door. “Let’s get out of here before they change their minds.”

“Good idea.”

My mom was Kitty Hammer, and as I implied before, if that name rings a bell, you’re probably a big-time tennis fan. When she was sixteen, Kitty Hammer was the number-one-ranked junior tennis player in the country. Mom was on track to be the next Venus or Billie Jean or Steffi, except something derailed her career for good:

She got pregnant with yours truly.

The world wasn’t ready for my parents’ relationship, I guess, so they ran off to parts unknown. Everyone predicted that the marriage would not last. Everyone was wrong. My mom and dad lived the corniest of love stories, and as I got older, it embarrassed me to no end. It was the kind of love that makes people jealous—and makes them cringe.

I used to want that kind of love for myself one day. Who doesn’t, right? But I don’t anymore. The problem with an all-consuming love like theirs is what happens when you lose it. Love like theirs turns two into one—so when my dad died, it was like ripping one entity in half, destroying my mom too. When we buried my father, I watched her crumble, like a puppet with its strings cut, and there was nothing I could do.

I learned a lesson from all this: that kind of obsessive storybook love was not for me. The end price was simply too high. While I liked Ashley a lot—while I cared about her and enjoyed my time with her—I would never let her or any girl get too close. Maybe she sensed that. Maybe that was why she ran away and never told me. Maybe that was why I should stop looking for her.

Uncle Myron was waiting for us next to his car. I tensed up as we approached. To say that the relationship between my mother and Myron was strained would be a gross understatement. They pretty much hated each other. It was Myron, six weeks ago, who had threatened to take me away from her if she didn’t agree to intensive rehabilitation.

I was surprised then when she walked up to him and gently kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

He nodded, said nothing.

My mother has always been frighteningly honest with me. She was barely seventeen when she got pregnant with me, my dad nineteen. Myron thought that she had trapped my father. Myron called her names, even telling my dad that the baby—me—probably wasn’t even his. It culminated in a fight between the two brothers that ripped them apart in a way that meant they would never be brought back together.

I know all this because my mother told me. She never forgave Myron for what he said about her. But here Mom was, fresh out of rehab, letting go of the past, surprising him, surprising me, and maybe that was the best sign of all.

As promised, Uncle Myron just dropped us off and left. “I’ll be at the office if you need anything,” he said. “The spare car is in the garage if you need one.”

“Thank you,” Mom said. “Thank you for everything.”

Myron had converted the ground-level office into a bedroom for my mother. I would be in the basement below while Myron had the master bedroom upstairs. Most nights, before I came into his life, Myron stayed in a famous apartment building in Manhattan. My hope was, now that my mother was home, he’d go back to that routine and give us some privacy until we could get on our feet and find a place of our own.

Mom practically skipped into her room. When she saw the clothes laid out on the bed, she turned to me with a smile and said, “What’s this?”

“I just bought you a few things.”

It was nothing much. Some jeans and tops from a discount department store. Just enough to get her started. She came over and hugged me. “You know something?” she said to me.

“What?”

“We’re going to be okay.”

I flashed back to when I was twelve. Mom, Dad, and I were spending three months in Ghana. They did charity work for the Abeona Shelter, a group that specialized in feeding and caring for poor and at-risk children. My father often left us for two or three days at a time, doing missions in even more remote areas. One night when he was gone, I woke up with chills and a spiked fever. I felt so awful that I thought I was going to die. My mother rushed me to the hospital. It turned out I had malaria. I was woozy and dazed and sure that I wasn’t going to make it. For three days, Mom never left my side. She held my hand and kept telling me that I was going to be okay, and it was her tone that made me believe it.

I heard that tone again now.

“I’m so sorry,” Mom said.

“It’s fine,” I said.

“What I did. What I became . . .”

“It’s behind us.”

Here was what she didn’t get: Mom had taken care of me my whole life. It was okay for it to be my turn for a while.

She started unpacking, humming while she did. She asked me about school and basketball. I gave her only the basics. I didn’t want to worry her, so I didn’t tell her about Ashley or especially about Bat Lady and what she’d said about Dad being alive. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to share all that with her. Like I said before, my mother was ridiculously open. But it wasn’t the kind of thing you told someone the day she leaves rehab. It could wait.

My phone buzzed. I looked down at the incoming call. It was Spoon, his third call this morning. Mom said, “Why don’t you get that?”

“It’s just someone from school.”

That pleased her. “A new friend?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t be rude, Mickey. Answer it.”

So I did, stepping into the hallway. “Hello?”

“Only male turkeys gobble,” Spoon said. “Female turkeys make more of a clicking sound.”

For this he called three times? Oh boy. “Great, Spoon, but I’m kind of busy.”

“We forgot about Ashley’s locker,” Spoon said.

I switched hands. “What about it?”

“She had a locker here, right?”

“Right.”

“Maybe there’s a clue in it.”

Genius, I thought. But I didn’t want to leave Mom alone. “Let me call you back,” I said, and pressed End.

When I came back in the room, Mom said, “What was that about?”

“Just something going on at school.”

“What?”

“It’s not important.”

She looked at her watch. It was eight thirty. “You’re going to be late.”

“I thought I’d stay with you today,” I said.

Mom arched an eyebrow. “And miss school? Oh, I don’t think so. Don’t worry. I’ve got a lot to do. I need to buy some more clothes. I need to go food shopping so I can make us dinner. I need to go back to Coddington for outpatient therapy in the afternoon. Come on, I’ll drive you.”

There was no room for protest, so I grabbed my backpack. Mom played the pop station and sang along softly. Normally her singing, off-key and enthusiastic as it was, made me roll my eyes. Not today. I sat next to her, closed my eyes, and just listened.

For the first time in so long, I let myself feel hope. This woman driving me to school was my mom. The junkie we had dropped off six weeks ago wasn’t. That’s what they don’t tell you. The drugs didn’t just change her. They stole her away, made her into something she wasn’t.

We stopped in front of the school. I didn’t want to leave her. She told me again not to worry.

“I’m going to the supermarket right now,” she said. “Then I’m going to prepare us the absolute best dinner in the history of the world.”

Mom was a great cook. She had learned how to prepare all kinds of exotic dishes during our years in exotic lands. “What are you making?”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”

Man, that sounded great. Talk about a perfect choice. Mom’s spaghetti and meatballs, as she well knew, were my favorite. Pure comfort food. She took my face in both of her hands. She always did that, held my face. “I love you so much, Mickey.”

I almost cried right then and there. “I love you too, Mom.”

I started to get out of the car but she put a hand on my forearm.

“Wait.” She fumbled for something in her purse. “You’ll need a note, right? For being late?” She jotted one down. When I got out of the car, she drove off, smiling and waving. Anybody watching would think that she was just another mom dropping her kid at school.

chapter 7

I FOUND SPOON right before lunch.

“Look at this,” he said.

He handed me an article he’d printed out. I figured that it would be on turkey sounds or Beyoncé, but no, it was a small piece on last night’s “attempted robbery” at the Kent home. According to the police, a man had broken in and started ransacking the house when he realized that Mr. Kent was home. The intruder assaulted him but ran off when Mrs. Kent arrived. Mr. Kent’s injuries were minor. He had been released from the hospital. The investigation was ongoing.

I still didn’t get it. Did the Kents have a daughter or not? Maybe it would pay to visit the house again.

“Which way to her locker?” Spoon asked.

I showed him. As we walked, Spoon got his key ready.

“I’ll need to do this fast,” he said. “You block the line of vision. I don’t want everyone seeing that I can open their lockers.”

I nodded my agreement. But when we turned the corner and approached Ashley’s locker, I could see right away that something was wrong. Spoon stopped and looked up at me.

Ashley’s lock had been smashed open.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Students were passing us by, oblivious, rushing to lunch or another class. I reached to open the locker and see what was inside when I felt eyes upon me. I turned and felt the quiet boom from her eyes.

It was Rachel Caldwell.

This won’t sound like an earth-shattering pronouncement, but boys get funny around really hot girls. Rachel could tell the lamest jokes and boys fall about the place in laughter. She could offer the smallest smile and fill a boy’s head with dreams that would last deep into nightfall. I would like to think I was above such things. For all I knew, Rachel had the brains of banana bread. But for a moment I met her gaze and felt my throat go dry.

Rachel stepped toward us. “Hi,” she said.

Spoon licked his hand, patted down his cowlick, and gave Rachel the eye. “Did you know,” he said to her, “that an octopus can’t give you rabies?”

Rachel smiled at that. “You’re cute.”

Spoon swooned and almost fell backward.

She turned and met my eye again. “What are you doing?”

I shrugged and said the first thing I would ever say to Rachel Caldwell, School Hottie: “Uh, nothing.”

The Return of Mr. Smooth.

Rachel looked at me again and then at the locker. For a moment I thought that she’d say more. But instead she gave the locker one last look and walked down the hallway. We watched her walk away. Rachel had some kind of walk.

“Put your tongues back in your mouths.”

It was Ema.

“Hi,” I said.

“Men,” Ema said, shaking her head. “Or should I say, boys.”

Spoon turned and stared at Ema.

She frowned at him. “What’s your problem?”

Spoon licked his hand, patted down his cowlick, and gave her the eye. “Did you know,” he said to her, “that an octopus can’t give you rabies?”

“Creep.”

Spoon shrugged at me. “It worked once. I figured . . .”

“I got it,” I said.

“What are you two doing?” she asked.

I didn’t bother answering. Instead I opened the locker. No surprise. It was empty. The bell rang, making us officially late for lunch. We hurried toward the cafeteria. I got in line. Spoon excused himself. I got two slices of pepperoni pizza and an apple—dairy, meat, fruit, bread, and if you counted tomato sauce, a vegetable. I moved to the table where Ema was sitting alone.

“Bolitar!”

I looked across the room to see who’d shouted my name. It was Buck and Troy. They glared at me and mashed their fists into their palms.

“I know,” I said to them. “Dead man.”

I put my tray next to Ema’s. Two days in a row. That got some tongues wagging. Ema unwrapped the plastic from her sandwich and said, “So what was all that with the locker?”

I was about to answer when I heard someone making kissing noises in our direction. I turned and saw Buck and Troy, both still wearing their heavy varsity jackets. It had to be eighty degrees in here. I wondered if they slept in them.

“Awww,” Buck said, “isn’t this romantic?”

“Yeah,” Troy added. “Two lovebirds sitting all by themselves.”

They made more kissy noises. I looked at Ema. She just shrugged.

Buck: “You gonna start kissing now, lovebirds?”

Troy: “Yeah, you gonna start making out in the lunchroom?”

“No,” I said, “we’ll leave that to you two.”

Buck and Troy turned chili-pepper red. Ema suppressed a smile. Buck opened his mouth but I held up a hand to stop him. “I know,” I said. “Dead man.”

“You don’t know nothing,” Troy spat. “You think you’re so cool, right? Well, you’re not.”

“Good to know,” I said.

Buck joined in. “You’re new here, so we’ll clue you in. You’re sitting with a loser.”

Troy said, “Yeah, a loser.”

I took a bite of pizza.

Buck again: “Did she tell you how she got her nickname?”

I glanced at Ema. She nodded for me to let him keep going.

“See, one day, right, she was acting all emo in Spanish class, okay, and she’s a chick, a fugly one, but a chick—”

I was about to get up, but Ema just shook her head.

“—right, not a guy, so, so we, one of us, actually I think it was Troy, right, Troy, it was you?”

“Yeah, right, Buck.” Troy swelled with pride. “It was me.”

They were both giggling now.

“So Troy says, just like this, no thought or nothing, just off the cuff, in the middle of class, Troy says, ‘That fugly’s not emo, she’s Ema.’ Get it?”

I said, “I get it.”

“Because, see, we’re in Spanish class with all the a’s and o’s at the end, and Troy just comes up with this name, Ema, just like that, and boom, it stuck. You see?”

I nodded. “You guys are the balls.”

Spoon appeared. He put his tray on the other side of Ema’s. Buck and Troy couldn’t believe their luck. “Oh man, you’re sitting here too?” Buck said. He pretended to jam a flag into the ground. “I declare this table Loserville.”

More giggling.

“Loserville, USA,” Troy said.

“USA,” I said. “In case, what, we don’t know what country we’re in?”

I was about to get up again, but Ema put a hand on my forearm. “Hey, Buck,” Ema said, “why don’t you tell Mickey how you got the nickname ‘Wee Wee Pants’?”

“What? That was never my nickname!”

“Sure it was. Troy, you probably never heard this one either, but it’s absolutely true. See, when Buck was in fourth grade, he went to a birthday party at my house—”

“I’ve never been to your house! I don’t even know where you live!”

“And Bucky had a little accident—”

“That’s not true!”

Troy looked at Buck funny now. “Dude?”

“She’s lying, Troy! Take it back, you dumb b—”

Ms. Owens appeared. “Is there a problem here?”

Everyone went silent. There were a bunch of “No, Ms. Owens” and then Buck and Troy faded away. I looked over at Ema. “Wee Wee Pants?”

Ema shrugged. “I just totally made that up.”

Oh man, did I love this girl. “Really? So the part about a birthday party . . . ?”

“Made it up. The whole thing.”

We bumped fists.

Spoon said, “Would you like to know a few fun facts about Troy?”

I took a bite of pizza. “Sure.”

“Troy is a senior. He is captain of the boys’ basketball team.”

Terrific, I thought.

“But the most interesting fact about Troy is his last name.”

“Which is?”

Spoon smiled. “Taylor.”

I stopped mid-bite. “Taylor?”

“Yup.”

“As in that cop who hassled us last night?”

“That was his dad,” Spoon said. “He’s actually the police chief here. In charge of the entire department.”

Double terrific.

chapter 8

I WORRIED ABOUT MY MOM all day.

We exchanged a few just-checking-in-type texts. She seemed upbeat. When the final bell rang, I found a quiet corner outside and called her cell phone. She answered on the third ring. “Hi, Mickey.”

I heard a little song in her voice and immediately relaxed. “Where are you?”

“I’m back at the house,” she said, “making you dinner.”

“Everything is okay?”

“Everything is great, honey. I went to the supermarket. I shopped for clothes at the mall. I even had a pretzel at the food court. That might sound boring, but it was a wonderful day.”

“I’m glad.”

“How was school?”

“Good,” I said. “So what do you want to do this afternoon?”

“I have outpatient therapy from four to five, remember?”

“Right.”

“And don’t you normally take the bus to basketball today?”

I had my steady pickup game in Newark. “I usually do.”

“So?”

“So I thought I’d skip it today.”

“Don’t change your plans because of me, Mickey. You go play, and I’ll go to therapy. By the time you get home, I’ll have the spaghetti and meatballs ready. Oh, and I’m making homemade garlic bread too.” Another one of my favorites—my mouth was already watering. “Will you be home by six?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Great. I love you, Mickey.”

I told her I loved her too and then we hung up.

The bus station is on Northvale Avenue, half a mile from the school. Most of the commuters heading back to Newark at this hour are exhausted housekeepers trekking back to their urban dwellings after a day in the wealthier suburbs. They gave me strange looks, wondering what this white boy was doing on the bus with them.

The well-to-do grassy environs of Kasselton were only seven miles from the gritty streets of Newark, but the two cities seemed to be from different planets. I’m told that Newark is on the mend and while I see pockets of it, I mostly see the old decay. Poverty is still prevalent, but I go where the best basketball is and while you could talk prejudice or racial profiling, I’m still one of the very few white guys down here after school.

The two courts were made of cracked asphalt. The rims were rusted with metal rather than nylon nets. The backboard had dints and dings. I started coming down here about a month ago. Naturally I was greeted with skepticism, but that’s the wonderful thing about basketball: you got game or you don’t. At the risk of sounding immodest, I got game. I still get funny looks from the regulars, still get new-guy challenges, but that was something I thrived upon.

We were midway through the fifth game when I was stopped in my tracks by something I saw.

Earlier, we had chosen up sides. We play full court, five-on-five, “winners stay on, losers sit.” That gives the game high stakes. No one wants to sit. The closest thing I have to a friend down here is Tyrell Waters, a junior point guard at nearby Weequahic High School. He’s probably the only guy I’ve met here I feel comfortable with—mainly because we don’t talk all that much. We just play.

Tyrell startled a few of the regulars by picking me first. Our team won the first four games in pretty easy fashion. For the fifth game, some of the guys on the sidelines tried to stack the sides so we would have stiffer competition. I loved the matchup.

But it was during that fifth game that I lost my focus a bit. These pickup games draw a surprisingly large and diverse crowd. Local toughs—Tyrell tells me that many are hardened gang members—hung off in the distance and glared. On the right, there was always a group of homeless men who cheered and jeered like real fans, applauding and booing and betting bottles of booze on the outcome. Closer in, leaning against the fence with stoic faces was a mix of local coaches, involved fathers, skuzzy agent wannabes, scouts from prep schools and even colleges. At least one guy, usually more, filmed the games for the purpose of recruitment.

So for a second, when we were coming back on defense, I glanced over at the crowd behind that fence. On the far right was the scout who recruited for an athletically high-powered parochial school. He approached me the other day, but I wasn’t interested. Next to him was Tyrell’s father, an investigator in the Essex County prosecutor’s office, who loved to talk hoops and sometimes took Tyrell and me for milk shakes after the games. And next to him, third in from the right, standing there with sunglasses and a dark business suit, was the guy with the shaved head I’d seen at Bat Lady’s house.

I froze.

“Mickey?” It was Tyrell. He had the ball and was heading downcourt. He looked at me, puzzled. “Come on, man.”

I jogged after him, moving down to the low post. The score was 5–4, our lead. We play first team to ten by ones. No one calls fouls—you just dealt with the contact and gave it back. I wanted to walk off the court right then and there, but you just didn’t do that in pickup games. I glanced back over by the fence. The man was still wearing the aviator sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but I had no doubt where he was looking.

Directly at me.

I set up on the post and called for the ball. The guy covering me was six-eight and burly. We jockeyed for position, but I knew I had to end this game quickly, before the man from Bat Lady’s house disappeared. I became a man possessed. I got the ball and drove down the middle, tossing up a baby hook over the front rim and in.

The man from Bat Lady’s house watched in silence.

I turned it up a gear, scoring the next three baskets. Three minutes later, with my team up 9–4 now, Tyrell hit me on the left block. I pump-faked, spun to my left, and nailed a fade-away banker over the outstretched hand of a guy who was nearly seven feet tall. The crowd went “ooo” when the ball fell through the hoop. Game over. Tyrell offered me a fist bump and I took it on the run.

“Some shot,” Tyrell said.

“Some pass,” I countered, heading off the court.

“Hey,” Tyrell said, “where you going?”

“I got to sit this one out,” I said.

“You kidding? It’s last game. We got a chance of sweeping.”

He knew something had to be wrong. I never sat out.

The man from Bat Lady’s house stood with the crowd behind the fence. When he saw me coming, he started to slide back and away. I didn’t want to call out, not yet anyway, so I picked up my pace. Because of the fence, I had to circle around to get to him.

Tyrell came running up behind me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t want to break into a sprint. That would look too weird, so instead I did one of those fast-walk things. When I got around the fence, the homeless guys surrounded me, offering me high fives, encouragement, and of course, advice:

“You need to work on your left, man . . .”

“The drop step. Use that, see, and go baseline . . .”

“You gotta stick your butt out more on the box out. Like this . . .”

It was hard to rush through without being overtly rude, but now the man from Bat Lady’s house was almost to the street corner, moving unhurriedly but somehow fast.

I didn’t want to lose him.

“Wait!” I shouted.

He kept walking. I called out to him again. He stopped, turned, and for a second, I thought I saw the hint of a smile on his face. The heck with it. I pulled away from my wino fan base and dashed toward him. Heads turned from the suddenness of my movement. In the corner of my eye, I saw Tyrell’s father notice what was going on and follow me.

The man from Bat Lady’s house was across the street now, but I was closing the gap pretty quickly. I was maybe thirty, forty yards away from him when the black car with the tinted windows pulled up next to him.

“Stop!”

But I wasn’t going to make it. The man paused and gave me half a nod, as if to say, Nice try. Then he slid into the passenger seat and before I could do anything, the car sped out of sight.

I didn’t bother to take down the license plate. I already had it.

Tyrell’s father, Mr. Waters, caught up. He looked at me with concern. “You okay, Mickey?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

He wasn’t buying it. “Do you want to tell me what that was about, son?”

Tyrell was there too now, standing next to his father. The two of them looked at me, together, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and I hated myself for feeling such envy. I was grateful to this man for worrying about me, but I couldn’t help but wish it were my own father standing here, concerned about my welfare.

“I just thought I recognized him, that’s all,” I said.

Tyrell’s father still wasn’t buying.

Tyrell said, “We still got one more game to play.”

I thought about my mother heading back home after therapy, making the spaghetti and meatballs. I could almost smell the garlic bread. “It’s getting late,” I said. “I have to catch the bus back.”

“I can drive you,” Tyrell’s father said.

“Thank you, Mr. Waters, but I can’t ask you to go out of your way like that.”

“It’s no trouble. I got a case in Kasselton anyway. It’ll be nice to have the company.”

We lost the last game, in part because I was so distracted. When it was over, we all high-fived or fist-bumped good game. Mr. Waters waited for us. I took the backseat, Tyrell sat up front. He dropped Tyrell off at the two-family house they shared with Mr. Waters’s sister and her two sons on Pomona Avenue, a tree-lined street in Newark’s Weequahic section.

“You going to come down tomorrow?” Tyrell asked me.

I had been blocking on it, but now I remembered that Mom, Myron, and I were flying out in the morning to visit my father’s grave in Los Angeles. It was a trip I didn’t want to make; it was a trip I really needed to make.

“Not tomorrow, no,” I said.

“Too bad,” Tyrell said. “Fun games today.”

“Yeah. Thanks for picking me.”

“I just pick to win,” he said with a smile.

Before he got out, Tyrell leaned over and kissed his father good-bye on the cheek. I felt another pang. Mr. Waters told his son to make sure he did his homework. Tyrell said, “Yes, Dad,” in an exasperated tone I remember using myself in better days. I moved up to the front passenger seat.

“So,” Mr. Waters said to me as we hit Interstate 80, “what was with that bald guy in the black car?”

I didn’t even know where to start. I didn’t want to lie, but didn’t know how to explain it. I couldn’t tell him I’d broken into a house or any of that.

Finally I said, “He may be following me.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“No idea at all?”

“None,” I said.

Mr. Waters mulled that over. “You know that I’m a county investigator, right, Mickey?”

“Yes, sir. Is that like a cop?”

“That’s exactly what it’s like,” he said. “And I was standing next to that guy the whole time you were playing. I’d never seen him down here before. He barely moved, you know? The whole time, he just stood there in that suit. Didn’t cheer. Didn’t call out. He never said a word. And he never took his eyes off you.”

I wondered how he could tell that, what with the sunglasses and all, but I knew what he meant. We fell into silence for a moment or two. Then he said something that surprised me. “So while you guys played that last game, I took the liberty of running the guy’s license plate.”

“You mean on that black car?”

“Yes.”

I sat perfectly still.

“It didn’t come up in the system,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s classified.”

“You mean like it’s diplomatic or something?”

“Or something,” he said.

I tried to put it together but nothing was coming to me. “So what does that mean exactly?”

We pulled up to Myron’s house. He coasted to a stop and then turned to me. “The truth? I don’t know, Mickey. But it doesn’t sound good. Just please be careful, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

Mr. Waters reached into his wallet. “If you see that bald guy again, don’t go chasing him. You call me, understand?”

He handed me his card. It read JOSHUA WATERS, ESSEX COUNTY INVESTIGATOR. There was a phone number on the bottom. I thanked him and got out of the car. He pulled out and I waved good-bye. As I trudged up the walk, I thought maybe I smelled garlic but that could have been my imagination.

I used my key to get inside. “Mom?”

There was no reply.

“I’m home,” I called out, louder this time. “Mom?”

Still no reply.

I headed into the kitchen. There was nothing on the stove. There was no smell of garlic. I checked the time. Six P.M. Mom probably wasn’t home from therapy yet. That was it. I opened up the refrigerator to grab a drink, but when I did, I saw immediately that there was no new food in it.

Hadn’t Mom said she went food shopping?

My breathing got a little funny. I called her cell phone. No answer. I hung up after the fifth ring.

Okay, Mickey, stay calm.

But I couldn’t. My hand started shaking. When my phone buzzed, I felt a sense of relief. It had to be Mom. I looked at the caller ID. It was Spoon. I started freaking out. I hit Ignore and dialed the Coddington Rehab Center. I asked for Christine Shippee. When she got on the line, I asked, “Is my mother still there?”