“You don’t know him.” His voice was defiant. “He’s probably asleep by now, anyway. He’s not going to call the police or run around looking for me, if that’s what you’re worried about. Honest.”
“Of course he will! That’s exactly what he’ll do!”
The boy didn’t back down. “He barely notices me even when I am home. It would take him two weeks to realize I wasn’t there.”
I considered this. The last thing I needed was to get arrested for kidnapping a small child. Were there laws pertaining to this exact situation?
And why was I suddenly caring about laws?
“I have to take you back home,” I said. “But I don’t have time now. You’ll have to wait here.” On the verge of telling him he could wait in my room, I stopped again. Would inviting a twelve-year-old boy to wait in my room all night look more, or less, weird than the current optics? And would my room be safer, or less safe, than here in the lobby?
Seeing my indecisiveness, he pressed his advantage. “Let me help,” he said again.
“You don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
“I think you’re still looking for that man. What happened? He wasn’t here?”
“He was here,” I replied absently. “But he left.”
“And you have to find him again?”
“Maybe.”
“See? You need my help.”
There was more in the boy’s eyes. Distracted as I was, I wondered why he was so eager to help. Why he was out of his house so much. First the airport, now here.
I made up my mind. I couldn’t leave him alone without knowing he’d be fine. I handed over my room key, deciding to hell with the optics. “You can wait in my room, okay? I’m in a hurry, Mason, I’m sorry. I’ll be back later. You can order room service.”
“I don’t want room service. I want to come with you,” he insisted.
“Why?”
“To help you!”
“Why are you so concerned with helping me?”
The defiance was back in his voice. “My whole life is boring! Nothing good or exciting ever happens except in books. My dad ignores me and the kids at school make fun of me and I’ve never had an adventure in my whole life. This is different. You’re exciting. I know I can help—I know you need my help. I’m not just some stupid little kid.”
I’d read somewhere that kids should be talked to like adults. Plus, I felt like his candor deserved my own. “I can’t let you. It’s dangerous, what I’m doing.”
Apparently I hadn’t spent enough time around young boys. I was out of practice. At the mention of dangerous his eyes lit up like a pair of thousand-watt candelabras. “I knew it!” he said, excited. “I knew it was dangerous. How dangerous? How many bad guys are there? Do they have weapons? You have to let me help you.”
I had to smile. “Sorry. This one is nonnegotiable. Next time.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Fine. But then I’ll have to keep my information to myself.”
“What information?”
“You’re not the only one with secrets.” He uncrossed his arms just long enough to take a sip of cocoa. “Maybe I know more than you think.”
“Mason, please. I don’t have time to bargain. This is important. I’m in a hurry. What do you know about this?”
“Maybe I know who you’re looking for. All of them,” he said pointedly.
I stared at the little boy, bewildered. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I pay attention.” He pulled his little notebook out of a pocket. “Everyone ignores me. And I write everything down.”
“What did you write down this time?”
His voice was proud. “Maybe I wrote that I saw four men drive away a few minutes before you walked in, and maybe I noticed them because it looked suspicious that people would be checking out so late at night. I couldn’t tell if the man from the airport was one of them,” he admitted. “It was too dark. I was watching them through the window.”
“What made you think they were checking out?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because they had a suitcase. A big rolling one. Who checks out in the middle of the night?”
I took a longer look at the boy in front of me. His eyes were bright and excited but his mouth was set in a resolved line. “Did you see what car they were in?”
“I knew it,” he said. “It is them you’re following, isn’t it?” His hand clenched tight around his notebook. “How dangerous are they? Do they have guns? Do you have a gun?” He rummaged in a backpack next to him and came out with a strange-looking object. Bemused, I glimpsed a tubular band of beige rubber, a black wrist brace. “I brought my slingshot,” he explained. “It’s accurate and quite powerful.”
“This isn’t a game, Mason. People can get hurt. Sometimes they stay hurt.”
His face clouded. “I know that. I bet I know a lot more about that than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I realized we were at an impasse that had to be broken. “Look—what do you want?”
“We make a deal. I tell you everything I know, and you take me with you tonight.”
I tried to ignore visions of Amber Alerts and squadrons of police cars and buzzing helicopters on a manhunt for the heartless, wanted-dead-or-alive kidnapper of a small boy. I didn’t relish becoming Public Enemy Number One in Monterey County.
On the other hand, I needed to know what he knew.
And I wasn’t actually kidnapping him. I assumed that part must matter.
I made up my mind. “Fine. Deal.”
He held out his hand and we shook. “Deal,” he agreed.
“Tell me about the car.”
He didn’t hesitate. “We’re looking for a black Mercedes G-Class, like a big jeep. That’s the car the men got into.” He looked anxious. “You’re not going to welsh, are you? Kids at school do all the time. With me, anyway.”
“Well, I don’t. Let’s go.” I got up. He stuffed his book and slingshot back into his bag and scrambled after me, putting on a black windbreaker that he had pulled out.
“Want one?” he offered. I looked and saw he was offering me a granola bar. “They’re low-fat,” he added, as if that was stopping me. “Blueberry. We need to keep up our energy. I packed some trail mix, too.”
“Maybe later. Two rules tonight,” I added. “Seriously.”
“Of course.” He nodded with vigor as the granola bars vanished back into the bag. “Anything you say. I’m just the sidekick.”
“One. You have to do exactly what I say. I mean it. Anything I tell you to do—you do it.”
He kept nodding, his eyes shining. “Okay. You’re in charge. And the second rule?”
“You’re going to wear a helmet.”
* * *
“I’ve never been on a real motorcycle!” Mason ran his hand along the curve of the Aprilia’s cherry red body as though touching a wild stallion.
“The important thing is to hold on,” I said. “If you feel me lean, you don’t have to do anything. Just keep holding on.” I helped him up first, while the kickstand was still down and the bike’s weight rested solidly against the ground. His toes barely grazed the rear passenger pegs. “Careful,” I warned. “The engine gets hot.” I wriggled my helmet onto his head and adjusted the strap under his jaw. It looked a little loose, but it would do. “When we’re riding I won’t be able to hear you. If it’s important, tap my right shoulder twice and I’ll pull over.” I worked my hair into a ponytail as I talked.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Mason said. “I brought a pair of walkie-talkies with earpieces.” He was already rummaging through his backpack once more.
I stared at the small boy sitting on the red motorcycle. “Walkie-talkies. Earpieces. Of course you did.”
“Benjamin Franklin said that by failing to prepare, you’re preparing to fail.” Mason handed me a clip-on walkie-talkie and an earpiece. “I figured that
we might get separated and need to communicate. These should have an effective range of at least two miles.”
I clipped the walkie-talkie onto the waistband of my jeans and fitted the earpiece around my ear, then swung my leg over the seat. “I’m not even going to ask what else you have in that backpack.”
He had already fastened his receiver to his belt. He slid the earpiece through his open visor. “What are we waiting for?” As he shut his visor, he added, “We don’t have all day.”
* * *
I started the bike and the headlight speared out, causing the overhanging trees to cast stark, grim shadows onto the asphalt. I could feel the boy’s arms tight around my waist.
“You okay?” I asked.
His voice crackled in my ear. “Roger. Doing fine.”
The dark road unspooled before us. It was steep enough that I barely throttled, letting the downhill provide momentum. The tollbooth came into sight and, a moment later, so did the body in the road.
17
I braked hard, feeling Mason’s weight press into me, and pulled over. “Wait here.”
His voice was frightened in my ear. “Is that a… ?”
“Sshhh.”
I cut the engine, conscious of Mason’s presence. A headlight could make for a tempting target. I didn’t want any attention drawn to the boy. I left him and walked toward the body. Had the fat man changed his mind about Coombs’s value?
The tollbooth was empty. A single bulb lit it from within. The narrow line of the gate was raised. It shouldn’t have been. I remembered passing under it. The way it had cut a sword stroke down after me. The body in the road lay completely still. Facedown, no indication of life. The shape could have been a fallen scarecrow, nothing more vital than straw-stuffed burlap.
Mason’s voice sounded through my earpiece, anxious. “Is he—”
“Sshhh.” I said again, my eyes on the shoes. Coombs had worn expensive leather oxfords. This person wore tennis sneakers. The body’s proportions didn’t fit Coombs’s, either. This person had a more slender build. And a white polo shirt.
Ben. The friendly kid who had chatted with me earlier. Community college classes, saving up money, living at his mother’s. That bashful look on his face, almost a blush, after he admitted that he lived at home. I knelt and cradled his head, feeling stickiness against my fingers.
He didn’t move.
I rested my hands against his neck, feeling a pulse, and shook him slightly. “Ben?”
He groaned and muttered something unintelligible while I felt around his head, tracing the source of the stickiness. He had a swelling bump and a cut on the back of his head. They must have hit him with something. He groaned again. I went into the tollbooth and picked up the handset. The night clerk from the registration desk answered. “Call an ambulance,” I told him. “Someone gave your security guard a concussion.”
I dragged Ben closer to the booth, propping him up under the pool of light to ensure that a rushing ambulance wouldn’t run him over. Police would come and want witness reports, but that couldn’t be helped. If they wanted to talk to me, they could find me.
I walked back to the boy. “Was he… ?” Mason asked.
“He’ll be fine,” I said, helping Mason back onto the motorcycle. “Someone hit him.”
His voice was fearful and fascinated. “The men you’re following?”
I started the bike up. “Probably.”
“Why would they hurt him?”
I answered as we accelerated down the hill, leaving the tollbooth behind, the pavement roughening as we reached the public roads. “Because he was in the way, and they’re the type of people who would rather knock something down than bother to go around.”
“Bullies.” His voice was knowing.
I sped up and leaned into a curve, pushing the right handlebar down toward the ground. “That’s one word for them.”
“Now what do we do?”
“We find a good place for some late-night seafood.”
* * *
My first thought was downtown Monterey. The touristy part. Places most likely to be open late, the best selection of restaurants. We rode up what was formerly Ocean View Avenue and was now Cannery Row, in Steinbeck’s honor, even though the last sardine canning factories had shut down almost a half-century ago. These days, the economy was all about packing in people, not fish. I could see the black water of Monterey Bay on my left. Santa Cruz lay to the north, Carmel-by-the-Sea to the south, and to the west, beyond the bay, only the open, wild waters of the Pacific.
As we reached downtown, we were surrounded by cars full of late-night diners and drinkers. Most of the restaurants were already closed, but the night still had a bit of life left. I braked to avoid a couple jaywalking across the multi-lane road, haphazard as a pair of deer. The girl nibbled at a cone of cotton candy, her boyfriend’s hand comfortable in the back pocket of her jeans. They didn’t bother to see if I planned to stop.
Mason’s voice was in my ear. “How do you know the men are here?”
“I don’t. I’m guessing.”
“They said they were going for seafood?”
“Yeah. Somewhere close.”
I could hear his skepticism even through the walkie-talkie. “Here? My dad’s always talking about how Cannery Row is a huge tourist trap.”
I had been thinking the same thing. We passed one of the few open bars, blaring Jimmy Buffett. On the patio I could see a group of overweight guys clinking shot glasses. Next to us, an open-top Jeep Wrangler full of men shouted something at a group of girls on the sidewalk.
It didn’t feel right.
The men I was looking for wouldn’t want to brake for jaywalkers or trade tequila shots with drunk twentysomethings.
We can get seafood. A place I like is nearby, it stays open late. If it was earlier, we could sit with cold beers and almost watch the boats bring our fish right up.
Seafood. Close by, near the water, and still open.
Where?
I pulled over, seeing the Information booth that I had stopped at earlier in the afternoon. The booth was now unmanned and closed, a steel shutter drawn down around its center like a snail withdrawn into shell. But the pamphlets and brochures were still on the counter, advertising windsailing and whale watching and deep-sea fishing. No point in locking them up; they were advertisements. The drunk guy grabbing a random brochure at night might be the hungover guy looking for brunch the next morning.
I took a pamphlet and unfolded it, once more seeing the ads on one side, the crude map on the other. I could see the two-dimensional pier of Fisherman’s Wharf jutting into two-dimensional water. The land where I now stood jutted out into a spur. I was on the northern edge of the spur. Under us, to the south, was Pebble Beach, with its famous golf course and 17-Mile Drive, the magnificent oceanfront homes lining the coast. Nothing would be open late down there, and if Mr. Z disliked elitism, that would be the last place he’d go. There was a toll just to enter 17-Mile Drive. So it had to be north. North of us was Sand City and then Seaside, just a few miles up the coast. A quieter, less touristy area, probably ignored by the luxe types wanting chauffeured Range Rovers and private chefs after eighteen holes of golf. Such beautiful taste, such luxury… I don’t stay at this kind of fancy place. I don’t think places like this are made for people like me. I have my own places, my own preferences.
We got back on the motorcycle. “Where are we going?” Mason wondered.
“Up the coast a bit.”
* * *
Lighthouse Avenue became Del Monte Boulevard as it followed the water, tracing the edge of the spur north. We left Monterey behind, and with it much of the late-night commotion. No more gaudy neon displays or loud music or screaming Jeep-loads. Which made me feel better. I wasn’t looking for a place with the best Yelp reviews or the most draft beer options. I wanted a place where a few locals might show up to sip cocktails and smell sea air late into the night. No crowds or shot glasses or Jimmy Buffett cover band
s.
We were on Sand Dunes Drive, now, the closest I could get to the ocean. Mason’s voice was in my ear. “How do you know where we’re going?”
“I don’t,” I said. “I just have an idea of what I’m looking for.”
We passed a sign for Del Monte Beach. Up ahead would be Seaside Beach, then Monterey, one by one. Different names attached to the same pristine line of sand and dunes. But state beaches were governed by the strictest conservation laws in the country. They wouldn’t have oil-dripping marinas or noisy restaurants or developments.
Could they have gone all the way up to Santa Cruz? I didn’t think so. Mr. Z had sounded hungry, and we weren’t in Manhattan. Restaurants wouldn’t stay open forever, and Santa Cruz was almost an hour north. We had to be in the right area—the only area that fit. But what if he had been speaking metaphorically? Not a place literally on the water, but close, within sight. Fishing boats not literally bringing in the fish, but close enough to feel that way. I got back on the main avenue, Del Monte. There were some restaurants open here, taquerias and sports bars. Casual. A definite maritime feel, signs advertising engine repair and fishing tours and water sports. I turned off Del Monte, combing the streets near the water, staying away from the darkened residential blocks. We passed a strip of chain businesses, all closed, a Subway and Jamba Juice and Starbucks.
I almost passed the Mercedes before I saw it.
A gleaming black G-Class, brand new, paint shiny, parked in a small lot marked by a red neon sign with a blinking crab. Johnny’s Crab Shack. The Mercedes stood out. The few other vehicles sprinkled in the lot were older models, American pickups and Japanese sedans. Mason saw it, too. He tapped my shoulder urgently. “There it is!”
Slowing down, I saw water. The restaurant wasn’t on the beach but rather on Laguna Del Ray, a small lake just off the coast. I could see the sign for a budget motel a few blocks up. The Seagull Inn. I pulled fast into the motel lot. “Stay here,” I told Mason.
The boy’s voice was tense with fear and excitement. “Where are you going?”
One Got Away Page 13