Текст книги "Shelter"

Автор книги: Harlan Coben

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

chapter 13

WHEN WE GOT BACK IN THE CAR, Ema said, “Put the address in the GPS.”

“No,” I said.

“What?”

I had caught Agent’s warning, but I wasn’t sure I needed it. Here was what I knew about Antoine LeMaire: He had broken into a school and Ashley’s locker. He had broken in and assaulted Dr. Kent. In short, there was an excellent chance that he was a dangerous man. I could take risks—that was on me—but I wasn’t about to drag Spoon and Ema into that particular hazardous zone.

That would be, uh, red chakra.

“It’s getting late,” I said. “I’ll drop you guys off.”

“You’re kidding,” Ema said.

“No. We aren’t going when it’s dark.”

Spoon said, “Maybe we should stop at that lamp store first.”

“Huh?”

“So we can buy Mickey a night-light,” Spoon continued. “You know, him being scared of the dark and all.”

Ema smiled. “Yeah, little Mickey need a nighty-lighty? Maybe a blankee too?”

I just looked at her. She shrugged an apology and said, “Drop off Spoon first.”

I did. Spoon directed me to a two-family house on the outskirts of Kasselton. There was a small truck parked in the driveway. The truck had a crossed mop-heads logo on the side. Cute.

When we pulled up, the front door opened. A man and a woman in their forties appeared. The man wore a janitor’s uniform. The woman had a business suit. The man was white. The woman was black.

Spoon shouted, “Mom! Dad!”

He ran up the stoop and they all greeted one another as if a hostage standoff had just ended. Ema and I watched in silence. I felt a pang of envy, but I felt a bigger pang of responsibility. Look at this kid with his loving parents. I couldn’t risk putting him or Ema in danger.

Spoon pointed at our car. His parents smiled and waved to us. Ema and I waved back. Ema said, “Wow, look at them.”

“I know,” I said.

They disappeared into the house.

“So what’s the plan?” Ema asked.

“We both go home. We do a little online research, see what we can find out about our tattooed friend Antoine LeMaire. We meet up in the morning and discuss.”

“Sounds good.” She pulled the door handle. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, I can drop you off.”

“No need,” Ema said.

“You live around here?”

“Close enough. Bye.”

“Wait.”

She didn’t. She got out of the car and started down the road. I debated following her, but she quickly veered right and vanished into the woods. I thought about pressing the issue, getting out of the car and running after her, but I had my secrets—wasn’t Ema entitled to hers too?

I was worried that Uncle Myron might be home. How would I explain driving the car? He knew that I had a fake ID. When he first found Mom and me in that trailer park, I was working under the name Robert Johnson at a nearby Staples. Still, I don’t think that he would like me driving illegally to a tattoo parlor or anyplace else, for that matter.

I parked in the garage, grabbed something to eat, and headed down to the basement. I Googled Antoine LeMaire, but nothing useful came up—not even a Facebook page or Twitter account. Pretty much nothing. I put the address into MapQuest. From the satellite photograph, the area looked pretty seedy. I could also see that it was right next door to a place called the Plan B Go-Go Lounge. I frowned and again thought about where my search for Ashley was taking me.

I looked to the wall of old basketball greats.

“What’s all this have to do with Ashley?” I asked out loud.

The posters did not reply.

I heard noise above me and then I heard Myron yell, “Mickey?”

“Homework!” I shouted back. Homework was a great word to ward off unwanted guardians. When you yelled, “Homework,” parents always left you alone. It worked better than a cross keeping away a vampire.

I stared down at my desk. My laptop was beat up from travel. My dad bought it three years ago when we were in Peru, and so it had been around the world several times over. Funny. I don’t have any of his possessions. He had taught me that they were irrelevant. A ring isn’t my dad. A watch isn’t my dad. None of those things would bring comfort. As my dad had explained to me, no true joy was ever found in a “thing.”

But oddly enough, this laptop seemed more personal, more “him,” than any of those more classic items might. He had spent time on this laptop. He had composed letters, worked on progress reports, looked up information on this machine. I thought about that sometimes, about his hands on this keyboard.

We each had our own folder—Dad, Mom, and me—and I clicked on his. I moved the files in order from when they were most recently opened. For a moment I was surprised to see one opened only six weeks ago, but then I remembered. Uncle Myron had searched this computer, looking for clues about his brother’s fate.

The last file he’d opened—the most recent—was called “Resignation Letter.” I clicked on it and the document appeared:

To: The Abeona Shelter

Dear Juan:

It is with a heavy heart, my old friend, that I resign my position with our wonderful organization. Kitty and I will always be loyal supporters. We believe in this cause so much and have given so much to it. In truth, though, we have been more enriched than the young people we’ve helped. You understand this. We will always be grateful.

It is time, however, for the wandering Bolitars to settle down. I’ve secured a position back in Los Angeles. Kitty and I like being nomads, but it has been a long time since we stopped long enough to grow roots. Our son, Mickey, needs that, I think. He never asked for this life. He has spent his life traveling, making and then losing friends, and never calling one place home. He needs normalcy now and a chance to pursue his passions, especially basketball. So after much debate, Kitty and I have decided to get him settled into one place for his last three years of high school, and then he can apply to college.

After that, who knows? I never imagined this life for myself. My father used to quote a Yiddish proverb: Man plans, God laughs. Kitty and I hope to return one day. I know that no one really ever leaves the Abeona Shelter. I know I am asking a big thing here. But I hope you’ll understand. In the meantime, we will do all we can to make this transition a smooth one.

Yours in Brotherhood,

Brad

I read the letter twice more, my eyes blurring with tears. There was noise coming from upstairs, but I ignored it. I already knew most of what was in this letter, I guess. There were no real surprises. But to see it written out like that, stated so plainly by my now-deceased father, it was like a hand squeezing my heart.

Yes, I had grown weary of the constant travel. I had wanted a normal life, in one community, a place where I could join a school basketball team for an entire season, test my skills with real teammates, make lasting friends, stay in one school, maybe apply to college.

Well congratulations, Mickey. You got what you wanted.

I thought about our lives when my father wrote that letter. We had been so great, hadn’t we? Mom and Dad had been happy and in love. Now, thanks to my wants, Dad was dead and the only thing Mom was in love with came out of a needle. And the truth—the unmistakable truth when you looked at it with honest eyes—was that it was my fault.

Nice work, Mickey.

The basement door opened behind me. Myron called down, “Mickey?”

I wiped my eyes. “Homework!”

Myron’s voice had a happy-little-singsong quality to it. “You have a visitor.”

“What?”

I could hear his footsteps coming down.

More singsong. “There’s a young lady here to see you.”

I spun around. Myron reached the bottom of the steps with the biggest, goofiest, dorkiest smile I had ever seen on a human being. Behind him, coming into view just now, was Rachel Caldwell.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said. Mr. Romance.

Myron smiled at us like a game-show host. “Do you kids want me to make you popcorn?”

“No, thanks,” I said quickly.

“How about you, little lady?”

Little lady? I wanted to die.

“I’m fine, Mr. Bolitar, thank you.”

“You can call me Myron.”

He was still standing there, smiling like the most pleased jackass. I stared at him, flaring my eyes a little so that he’d catch the hint. He did. Awkwardly. “Oh, right,” Myron said. “I’ll just leave you two alone then. I’m going to head back upstairs, I guess.”

Myron pointed up the stairs with his thumb. Like maybe we didn’t know where “upstairs” was.

“Great,” I said, hoping to move him along.

Uncle Dork took one step and turned back toward us. “Uh, um, if it’s okay—and even if it’s not—I’m going to leave the basement door open. It’s not that I don’t trust you two, but I think Rachel’s parents wouldn’t approve—”

“Fine!” I said, interrupting him. “Leave the door open.”

“Not that I feel like I have to check up on you or anything. I’m sure you’re both very responsible teenagers.”

I wondered if I would ever in my life feel more mortified. “Thanks, Myron. Bye.”

“If you change your mind about the popcorn—”

“You’ll be the first to know,” I said. “Bye.”

Myron finally headed up the stairs. I turned to Rachel, who was smothering a chuckle.

“I’m sorry about my dorky uncle.”

“I think he’s nice,” Rachel said. “By the way, is everyone in your family over seven feet tall? Remind me not to wear flats when I visit you.”

I laughed at that, maybe a little too hard, but I needed a laugh.

“I’ve got two tests next week,” Rachel said, “so I thought maybe we could get a jump on the French Revolution project?”

“Sure,” I said.

Rachel took in the basement. Myron’s posters. Myron’s lava lamp (yes, he had one). Myron’s beanbag chairs. “Cool room.”

“It’s my uncle’s.”

“For real?”

“Yeah. I’m just here temporarily.”

“From where?”

“All over,” I said.

“Nice vague answer,” Rachel said.

“I was trying to be a man of mystery.”

“Try harder.”

I liked the way she said that.

“So, man of mystery, what were you doing by your girlfriend’s locker yesterday?”

I almost said, She’s not really my girlfriend, but I didn’t. “Just checking on something,” I said.

“Checking on what?”

“Do you know Ashley?” I asked.

“Not really, no.”

I didn’t know how much to say here. Rachel looked at me with deep-blue eyes a boy could fall into and never find his way out. And he’d be happy that way. “She left school,” I said. “I mean, I haven’t seen or heard from her in a week. I don’t know where she went.”

“And you thought her locker . . . ?”

“I don’t know. I thought it might hold a clue or something.”

Rachel seemed to consider this. “Ashley is new to the school too, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“So maybe she just moved away.”

“Maybe,” I said.

From upstairs Myron yelled, “How’s it going down there? Anybody want some popcorn and apple juice?”

Apple juice?

Rachel smiled at me. I felt my face flush.

Myron shouted down again, “Mickey?”

“Homework!”

chapter 14

LATE THAT NIGHT, while I was getting ready for bed, I got a text. Ema: can you get out?

Me: Yes. What’s up?

Ema: something I saw in the woods at Bat Lady’s. I think we should take a closer look.

Now? I thought, but then again, when would it be a better time? We needed the cover of dark, I guess, because I wasn’t sure we could approach the yard during the day without being seen. I threw on a pair of sweats, grabbed a flashlight, and headed for the front door.

When I reached for the knob, I heard a voice behind me say, “Where are you going?”

It was Myron. “Out,” I said.

He made a production of looking at his watch. “It’s late.”

“I know.”

“And it’s a school night.”

I hated when my uncle tried to play parent. “Thanks for the heads-up. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

“I think you should tell me where you’re going.”

“I’m just meeting a friend,” I said, hoping that would end it. No such luck.

“Is it that Rachel girl who was here earlier?” my uncle asked.

I needed to nip this in the bud. “We had a deal when I agreed to stay here,” I said. “Part of that was, you were going to stay out of my business.”

“I never agreed to let you go out at all hours.”

“Yeah, you kind of did. I’m just meeting a friend. It’s not a big deal.”

I rushed out before he could argue. I knew that Myron was trying to do the right thing here, but man, he was the wrong guy to try. I found Ema about a block away from Bat Lady’s house.

“How do you get out so late?” I asked her.

“What?”

“You’re fourteen years old and you’re out at all hours,” I said. “Don’t your parents get mad?”

Ema frowned. “Are you writing my biography or something?”

I frowned right back. “Good one.”

“Yeah, sorry, that was pretty lame.”

“Writing your biography.”

“I know,” she said. “I used to be funnier. I mean, before I hung out with you.”

We both slowly turned and looked down the street at Bat Lady’s house. In a word: spooky. It was nearly midnight now. The house was totally dark, except for one light on, shining from an upstairs corner window. Her bedroom, I guessed. Shouldn’t an old lady have all the lights out by now? What was Bat Lady doing up there at this hour? I imagined her alone, lying in bed, reading or casting spells or devouring small children.

Man, I had to get a grip.

“So what did you want to check out?” I asked Ema.

“When I was hiding in the woods from that bald guy, I spotted something behind the garage.”

“What?”

“I don’t know exactly.” She seemed to think about how to proceed. “It looked like a garden or something. And I thought I saw . . .” Ema stopped, swallowed. “I thought maybe I saw a tombstone.”

The air was hot and humid tonight, but I suddenly felt a chill. “You mean, a tombstone like in a grave?”

“I don’t know. It might have just been a stone or something. That’s why I thought we should check it out.”

I agreed. I also wanted to check out the garage. What, I had been wondering, had that car been doing there anyway? If they were just visiting Bat Lady—and I couldn’t really fathom that—why not just leave the car outside? Why go to the trouble of putting it in that small garage that barely had room for the one vehicle?

I flashed back to my last encounter with the shavedhead man:

Is my father still alive?

We’ll talk.

Dang straight you’ll talk. But I wasn’t about to sit on my butt and wait for that. We started for the woods behind Bat Lady’s house. The flashlights posed a dilemma. Use them and someone might see and call the cops. Don’t use them and, well, we couldn’t see. For now, Ema and I kept them off, figuring we could turn them on when we got closer.

The streetlights gave off enough illumination for us to reach the edge of the woods. Again I was stunned to see how close the trees came to Bat Lady’s back door. The lights were off in her backyard too. I crept up to the kitchen door. Ema whispered, “What are you doing?”

Good question. I wasn’t about to break in again, was I? Especially not at night. Still I was drawn to the area. I don’t know why. I bent down low and checked the basement windows. Again it was pitch black. Not only that, every shade was pulled down tight. I couldn’t see a thing.

I thought about the last time I was here—inside Bat Lady’s house. I thought about that old photograph, that same butterfly I saw on the placard by my father’s grave. I thought about the light going on in the basement.

What, I wondered, was down there? For that matter, what was upstairs, in that room where the light was still on?

“Mickey?”

It was Ema. “Where’s this garden?” I whispered.

“Behind the garage. This way.”

We took two steps into the trees and stopped. It was simply too dark. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. We had to risk it. I took out my flashlight and kept the beam low. When we reached the garage, I tried to look inside but there were no windows.

“It’s back here,” Ema whispered.

I took a quick glance behind me. From the back, all the lights were still out at Bat Lady’s house. I wondered if that upstairs bedroom light remained on. Maybe Bat Lady had fallen asleep. Maybe she had fallen asleep hours ago and just forgot to turn off the light. Or maybe she had died and that was why the light was still on.

Nice thought, Mickey!

Ema and I hugged the side of the garage as we felt our way. When we reached the back corner, I shined the flashlight in front of me.

What the . . . ?

Ema had been right. There was a garden. I don’t know much about plants or flowers, but I could see this one was well kept and rather stunning. Here, in this mostly green wilderness, was a burst of well-tended color. A foot-high fence surrounded an area that was maybe fifteen feet by fifteen feet. There was a path right down the middle, gorgeous flowers blossoming on either side. And there, at the end of the path, was what definitely looked like a tombstone.

For a moment Ema and I didn’t move. Behind me I thought I could hear music now. Faint. Rock music. I looked at Ema. She heard it too. We slowly pivoted toward the Bat Lady’s house. The lights were still out. But the music was definitely coming from there.

Ema turned back to the tombstone. “The grave,” she said. “It’s probably for a pet, right?”

“Right,” I said too quickly.

“We should probably take a closer look, though.”

“Right,” I said again. I could actually feel my legs quaking now. I took the lead. We started toward the little fence and stepped over it. We made our way down the narrow path and stopped in front of the tombstone. I bent down. Ema followed. The music was still faint, but now I was able to make out some lyrics:

My only love,

We’ll never see yesterday again. . . .

Rock music. The voice sounded familiar—Gabriel Wire from HorsePower maybe?—but I’d never heard the song before. I shook it off and shined the flashlight onto the worn gray tombstone. For a second—just a split second—I had the weirdest thought that I would see Ashley’s name on the tombstone, that someone had killed her and buried her here, and that this was the end of my search. Like I said, the thought only lasted a split second. But it sent shivers everywhere.

The beam from the flashlight hit the top of the tombstone. First observation: the tombstone was old and worn. If it had been for a pet, that animal had died long ago.

I inched the beam down. The second thing I spotted on the tombstone were, well, words. An epitaph, I figured. I read it once, then a second time, and I still wasn’t sure what to make of it:

LET US LABOR TO MAKE THE HEART GROW LARGER,

AS WE BECOME OLDER,

AS SPREADING OAK GIVES MORE SHELTER.

“Do you get it?” Ema asked.

The word shelter was all in caps. Why? Once again, I thought about my father. I thought about that retirement letter from the Abeona . . .

Shelter.

Coincidence?

I scanned the flashlight lower:

HERE LIES E.S.

A CHILDHOOD LOST FOR CHILDREN

“ ‘A childhood lost for children,’” Ema read out loud. “What the heck does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s E.S.?”

I shook my head again. “Maybe it’s her dog or something.”

“A dog whose childhood was lost for children?”

Good point. She was right. That made no sense. I lowered the flashlight a little more, almost to the ground. And there in small print:

A30432

I felt my blood go cold.

“How do I know that number?” Ema asked.

“The license plate of the black car.”

“Oh. Right.” Then she shook her head. “Why the heck is that here?”

I had no idea. “Maybe it’s a date,” I said.

“A date that starts with the letter A?”

“The numbers. Three could stand for March. Fourth day. Nineteen thirty-two.”

Ema frowned. “You think?”

In truth, no, I didn’t. I stood there baffled while Ema moved around the tombstone, using the light from her cell phone to see. The music still came from the house. It was past midnight.

What kind of old lady plays rock music after midnight?

One who still plays old vinyl records. One who keeps a weird tombstone in her wooded backyard. One who has strange visitors in a black car with a license plate number engraved on that same weird tombstone. One who told a teenage boy that his dead father was still alive.

“What’s this?” Ema asked.

I snapped back to the present. “What?”

“Behind here.” She was pointing to the back of the tombstone. “There’s something carved into the back.”

I walked over slowly, but I knew. I just knew. And when I reached the back of the tombstone and shined the light on it, I was barely surprised.

A butterfly with animal eyes on its wings.

Ema gasped. The music in the house stopped. Just like that. Like someone had flicked the off switch the moment my eyes found that dang symbol.

Ema looked up at my face and saw something troubling. “Mickey?”

Nope, there was no surprise. Not anymore. There was rage now. I wanted answers. I was going to get them, no matter what. I wasn’t going to wait for Mr. Shaved Head with the British accent to contact me. I wasn’t going to wait for Bat Lady to fly down and leave me another cryptic clue. Heck, I wasn’t even going to wait until tomorrow.

I was going to find out now.

“Mickey?”

“Go home, Ema.”

“What? You’re kidding, right?”

I turned and stormed my way back to the house. I pulled out my wallet and started searching for my thin card to open the lock again.

Behind me, Ema asked, “Where are you going?”

“Inside.”

“You can’t just . . . Mickey?”

I didn’t stop. Yes, I was going to break into this house again. I was going to poke around and search that basement—and if I had to climb those stairs and break into Bat Lady’s bedroom to get answers, well, I would do that too.

“Mickey, slow down.”

“I can’t.”

Ema grabbed hold of my arm. I turned. “Just take a breath, okay?”

I gently shook off her hold. “That butterfly or whatever the heck it is? It was on a photograph in Bat Lady’s house—a photograph that must have been forty or fifty years old. It was on a placard on my father’s grave. I’m not waiting, Ema. I need to get some answers now.”

I reached the back door and prepared my credit card. I tried to slide it in the crack, just like last time.

No go.

There was a new lock, new doorknob, and what looked like steel enforcements in the door. I looked back at Ema.

“That was fast,” she said. “Now what?”

“Now you leave,” I said.

She faked a yawn. “No, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

I shrugged. “Okay. You asked for it.”

When I knocked on the door, Ema actually gasped out loud and took two steps back.

There was no answer. I pressed my ear against the door and listened. No sound. I pounded harder. No answer. I pounded harder still, and now I added a shout.

“Hello? Bat Lady? Open up! Open up right now!”

Ema tried to stop me. “Mickey?”

I ignored her. I kicked the door. I hit it again with my fists. I didn’t care. Add all the steel enforcements you liked. I was getting inside and I was getting answers.

Then a giant beam of light hit me from the side.

I know beams don’t “hit” you, but that’s how it felt. The light was so sudden and bright that I actually jumped back, raising my arms like I was warding off an intruder. I heard a swoosh to my right and realized that Ema was running away.

A voice shouted, “Don’t move!”

I didn’t. I didn’t know what to do. I wondered if it was my guy with the shaved head, but no, there was no British accent. The light came closer. I heard footsteps behind it. There was more than one guy—maybe two or three.

“Uh, could you lower the beam?” I asked.

The light stayed right on my face, moving closer and closer. I shut my eyes. I wondered whether I should just run. I didn’t know who this was. I was fast. I could get away, right? But then I thought about Ema. If I ran, whoever this is might have heard her and take chase. They might catch her. This way, with him focusing solely on me, Ema would be safest.

“Don’t move,” he said again, only a few yards away now.

As he took another step, I heard the sound of a radio or walkie-talkie. There was static. Then two men talking. I heard more of the radios behind him. Another light shone on me.

“Well, well,” the voice said. “Look what we got here. Is this another attempted break-in, Mickey?”

I recognized the voice now. Police Chief Taylor. Troy’s father.

“I wasn’t breaking in,” I said. “I was knocking.”

“Sure you were. And what’s the card in your hand?”

Uh-oh.

Another cop came over to him. “Need help, Chief?”

“Oh, I think I got this one under control. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

I did as he asked. I guess I should have been expecting it, but suddenly I felt the snap of handcuffs on me. Chief Taylor leaned in close and whispered, “Heard you jumped my boy when he wasn’t looking.”

“You heard wrong,” I said. “He just got his butt kicked for picking on the wrong underclassman.”

Chief Taylor pulled on my arms a little too hard. Pain shot up my shoulders. He led me around front. I saw two cop cars. We started toward them. The back door opened. Chief Taylor put his hand on my head and pushed me in. I looked back at Bat Lady’s house, up at the window where the bedroom light still shone.

The curtain moved—and suddenly, Bat Lady’s face appeared.

I almost screamed out loud.

Somehow, even from this distance, even through the back window of the police cruiser, I could see that she was looking directly at me, directly into my eyes. Her mouth was moving. She kept saying the same thing over and over again, like a mantra. I watched her while Chief Taylor got in the front seat of the cruiser. Bat Lady kept mouthing the same words to me. I tried to make them out.

The car started up. We pulled away from the curb. Bat Lady’s mouthing got more urgent now, as if she was trying to reach me before I vanished from sight. And as she did, as she mouthed the two words yet again, I thought that maybe I had figured out those two words, the two words that Bat Lady was trying so desperately to tell me:

“Save Ashley.”