by Harlan Coben
I was closing the gap.
Behind me I heard voices. Someone yelled, "Stop!" I didn't. I figured that I'd obey when the Butcher did. He leapt over a hedge. I leapt it too.
Only ten feet separated us when he finally veered into the woods. It wouldn't do him any good. I was there. I was going to catch up to him and take him down and . . .
I went down hard.
Someone had tackled me. He was straddling me.
"Stop! Police!"
I looked up into the face of Chief Taylor!
"Don't move!" he shouted.
"Let me go! You gotta go after him!"
But Chief Taylor wouldn't listen to me. "I said, 'Don't move.' Lie flat on the ground and put your hands on your head."
"He's getting away!"
"Now!"
Taylor started to flip me onto my stomach. I let him roll me and just kept going with it, throwing him off me. I jumped back to my feet.
"We can't let him go!" I shouted, turning back toward the woods.
But by now another officer was there. And another. One went for my legs, the other hit me high. I fell back to the ground. Taylor stood over me, his face red with rage. He reared back his foot as if to kick me, and then I heard another voice shout, "Get away from him, Ed!"
It was Uncle Myron.
Taylor turned to the voice. I tried to get up, tried to keep running after the Butcher, because there was no time to explain, not really, and I figured that they'd follow me and I could explain later. I actually managed to shrug him off, but when I looked back at the woods, there was no one, not a sound. I hesitated, looking for him, giving the cops a fresh chance to grab me.
There was no point in struggling anymore.
The night fell silent. The Bat Lady's house burned down to the ground. And the Butcher was gone.
CHAPTER 24
I told anyone I could about the blond guy, but they weren't listening. Still red-faced, Chief Ed Taylor took out his handcuffs.
"You're under arrest," he said to me. "Turn around and put your hands behind your back."
He reached for my arm, but Uncle Myron stepped between us. "What's the charge?"
"You're kidding, right? How about arson, for starters?"
"You saw him start that fire?"
"No," Taylor said, "but he was running away."
"Maybe because, oh, I don't know, the fire could have burned him?" Myron snapped. "What did you want him to do--put it out?"
Taylor's hands tightened into fists. "Well, Bolitar, how about the rest of it--resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer--"
"You jumped him in the dark," Myron said. "And all he did was roll you off him. He never hit you. If you're embarrassed that a teenager got the better of you . . ."
Chief Taylor's face turned even redder. Oh, this wasn't helping.
"I'm bringing him in, Bolitar. Get out of my way."
"Where are you taking him?"
"To the station for initial booking, then a bail appearance down in Newark."
"Bail? Isn't that a little overkill, Ed?"
"He might be a flight risk."
"He's a kid, for crying out loud." Myron put his hand on my shoulder. "Don't say a word, Mickey, do you hear me? Not one word." He turned back to Taylor. "I will be following your vehicle. As his attorney I'm forbidding you from questioning him."
Taylor had his cuffs out. "Hands behind your back."
"Seriously, Ed?" Myron said.
"Procedure," Taylor replied. "Unless you think your nephew deserves special treatment."
"It's okay," I said, putting my hands behind my back. Chief Taylor cuffed me. One of his men guided me into the back of a squad car and sat next to me. Chief Taylor took the front seat.
I looked back at the burning house. I thought about those photographs--the one of Ashley, the one of that sad-eyed boy with the curly hair. I thought about all I had seen and heard there and wondered what it all meant. That house, I figured, had been the headquarters for the Abeona Shelter. Now it was gone, burned down by . . .
Who? The Butcher of Lodz? A man who would be ninety but still looked in his thirties? Did that make any sense?
And most of all, the question that kept coming back to me again and again: What had he done with my father?
"I can't believe it," Taylor said.
I looked toward the rearview mirror and met Chief Taylor's eyes. I wanted to ask what he was talking about, but I remembered what Myron had said about keeping quiet.
The cop next to me made it easier: "What can't you believe?"
"Bolitar. The kid's uncle."
"What about him?"
"He's following us in a stretch limo."
It wasn't easy to turn around with my hands cuffed, but I managed enough. Chief Taylor was right. We were indeed being followed by a big black limousine.
"So, Mickey," Chief Taylor said, "this is the second time I've caught you near that old house. You want to tell me why?"
"No, sir."
"Maybe you got a thing for old ladies," Chief Taylor said, and in his mocking voice I could hear the echo of his son's Ema Moo! "Is that it, Mickey? Do you dig grannies or something?"
I didn't rise to the bait. Even the cop next to me was frowning at this lame approach.
The Kasselton police station was located across the street from Kasselton High School. A few hours ago, I'd been quietly celebrating my basketball debut in a gymnasium a few yards from where I was now being brought in by cops. Life is definitely a series of thin lines.
Taylor slipped out of his seat and closed the door behind him. A few seconds later, the cop sitting next to me helped me out. The limousine was right behind us. The back door opened, and Myron stepped out.
"You have a limo now, Bolitar?" Chief Taylor said. He ran his hand along the roof of the stretch. "You must really think you're hot stuff."
"It isn't mine."
"No? Then whose is it?"
"Actually"--and now I thought I saw the smallest hint of a smile on Myron's face--"it belongs to Angelica Wyatt."
Taylor scoffed at that. "Sure, right, and I'm George Clooney."
The tinted back window slid down. When Angelica Wyatt stuck her gorgeous face out the window, smiled, and said, "Are you the town police chief? What a pleasure to meet you," I thought Taylor would have a stroke.
"Uh, Miss Wyatt . . . oh, my, is it really you? We're all big fans, aren't we, fellas?"
There were five cops surrounding the limousine now. They all nodded like puppets. Angelica Wyatt awarded them with yet another smile. She said something else, I couldn't hear it, but some of the cops began to chuckle. I met Uncle Myron's eyes and he rolled them.
Angelica Wyatt made a comment about how handsome men in uniform were. I saw Chief Taylor pet down his hair and puff out his chest. Really? Are we men this easily taken? Then I thought about Rachel Caldwell. Hadn't she done something similar to me when we first met? Hadn't I fallen for it?
I bet Ema would have something cutting, funny, and true to say about this.
Myron and I stood away from the rest of them. My hands were still cuffed behind my back. Angelica Wyatt continued to talk to Chief Taylor. He continued to giggle like a schoolgirl.
"What's going on?" I asked Myron.
That small smile was back on his face. "Wait."
Three minutes later, Chief Taylor came over and unlocked my cuffs. He turned to Myron. "You're his legal guardian?"
"I am."
He wasn't. Not really. That was part of the deal. I would stay with him, but Mom remained my legal guardian. Still, with her in rehab, he was the closest thing to one.
"You have to come inside and sign some papers, promising that he will appear when we need him, that kind of thing."
Myron and I managed not to ask what happened to the bail hearing in Newark. We knew the answer: Angelica Wyatt.
"Go wait in the car," Myron said to me.
A chauffeur complete with a chauffeur cap opened the door for me. I got in and sat
next to Angelica Wyatt. It was weird for me, so it must have been weird for her. She was a big-time movie star and being in her presence was, well, like being in the presence of a movie star, something big and grand and unreal. It wasn't her fault. I don't think it was my fault either. It was just weird. I wondered what it was like for her to deal with that every day. It gave you great powers--look at how it'd freed me--but it must also have been a strange burden.
"Are you okay?" she asked me.
"Yes, ma'am. Thanks for your help."
I had never been in the back of a stretch limousine. The seats were rich leather. There was a small TV set and heavy crystal glasses.
"What happened? Were you in the house?"
Once again I didn't want to lie--but I wasn't up for telling the truth either. I really didn't know this woman. "I thought I saw a fire, so I tried to help."
Angelica Wyatt looked skeptical. "By going in the house?"
"Yes. To, uh, see if anybody was home."
"Why didn't you just call the fire department?"
Oops.
"Why would you call your uncle and tell him you needed help?"
"Believe me, if I had anyone else to call . . ." I stopped, wishing I had just stayed quiet.
"Mickey?"
I turned toward her. She looked at me with those eyes that somehow felt both comforting and oddly familiar. I liked her eyes, not just because they were brown and beautiful, but because I sensed the warmth there.
"I know it's none of my business, but your uncle is trying."
I said nothing.
"He's a good man. You can trust him."
"No offense," I said, which is something you say when you're about to offend, "but you really don't know the situation."
"Yeah, Mickey, I do."
I thought about that. She had told me that she'd been my mom's friend back when she got pregnant with me.
"He made a mistake," Angelica Wyatt said to me. "You'll understand that one day. Life isn't like one of my movies. Kids think grown-ups have all the answers, when the only difference between kids and grown-ups is that grown-ups know that there are no easy answers."
"Again, no offense," I said, "but it's been a long time since I thought grown-ups had all the answers."
She almost smiled at that. "We mess up. That's my point, Mickey. We all mess up. We try our best and we love you so much, but we are such weak, imperfect creatures."
Angelica Wyatt looked down. Her face fell and for a moment, I thought that she was about to cry.
"Miss Wyatt?"
"We all make mistakes. Your uncle wasn't the only one."
The limousine door opened. Uncle Myron looked in and said, "Everything okay here?"
Now I could see why Angelica Wyatt was such a great actress. Her face brightened and you'd never know that a few seconds ago, she'd seemed completely crushed.
"Sure," she said, sliding over to make room for him. "Mickey and I were just chatting."
CHAPTER 25
As you can imagine, I got the first, second, third, and fourth degree from Myron. Despite Angelica Wyatt's pleading, I still didn't trust him. I knew that maybe I should. I knew that when the chips were down, I had indeed called him for help. But both Bat Lady and Shaved Head had warned me not to say anything to Myron.
Still, there was a moment I weakened and almost said something. But then Myron inadvertently gave me another reason to keep him in the dark.
"Your father went into that house when he was a kid," Myron reminded me. "He never told me what he saw."
Good point--and if my dad chose never to tell Uncle Myron, I figured, well, neither should I.
At some point, Myron threw up his hands and moved back into the den. I debated what to do at this point. I couldn't just let it go completely, because the truth was, I did need something from him. I approached the den and sat down on the couch. Myron had bought his childhood home from my grandparents a few years back. That meant that he and my dad grew up right here, and, yeah, that was kind of weird. The two brothers had spent hours in here watching television. It was strange to picture it, my dad as a kid, hanging in this room with Uncle Myron.
I wasn't sure how to broach the subject, so I started with familiar territory I knew would interest him. "Tryouts went well today," I said.
"Yeah?" As I predicted, this subject captured his interest. "Did you work out with the JV?"
I nodded. "But Coach Grady said he wants to see me tomorrow."
Myron grinned at that. "You think he wants to move you up?"
"I don't know," I said, though I suspected just that. So did Myron.
"But you played well?"
"I thought so, yeah."
"That's great."
Silence. Okay, enough with the warm-up.
"I have to ask you a favor," I said. "I know this will sound insane, but I need you to trust me on this."
Myron sat up and leaned forward. "What's up?"
"I want . . . I want to exhume my father's body."
My words hit him like a wet slap. "What?"
I started to backpedal. Man, I should have thought this out better. "I want his body moved out here," I lied. "So he can be buried closer to us."
Myron just looked at me. "For real?"
"Yes, of course."
"What else, Mickey?"
"Nothing."
Myron's voice was firmer. "What else, Mickey?"
How to put this . . . ? "I never saw him," I said slowly. "I . . . I need to know it's him in that box."
Myron took a second now. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "You mean, like, you need closure?"
"Yeah," I said. "Closure."
"I don't think seeing his body now will help."
"Myron, listen to me, okay? Just . . . just listen."
Myron waited.
"I need to know that it's Dad in that coffin."
He looked confused. "What do you mean?"
I closed my eyes. "I asked you to just trust me on this. Please."
Myron studied my face for a few moments. I stared right back at him, my eyes unwavering. I expected more questions, but instead he surprised me.
"Okay," Myron said. "I'll look into the legal protocol tomorrow."
CHAPTER 26
I suddenly realized that I was both starving and exhausted. Uncle Myron ordered enough Chinese food for a family of twelve. I tried to eat in silence, but Myron had to remind me, like he always did, that this had been my father's favorite Chinese restaurant and that he had especially liked the shrimp in lobster sauce.
After I finished eating, I thought about calling Ema and filling her in on what happened, but it was late and I was just too tired. It could wait. After hearing Spoon's rumors about Ema's home life, I both wanted to keep reaching out and yet feared that it might cause some kind of blowback.
A text came in from Rachel: We still on for tomorrow after school?
Me: Yes. How are you?
Rachel: Fine. Gotta go. Tomorrow.
When the school bell rang at eight thirty the next morning, I was back in my homeroom. Funny how school could smooth the rough edges off everything, even all that I was going through. Back inside this plain brick edifice, life seemed normal. School was boring, sure, but it was also an anchor. The rest of my life might be flying off in every direction, but here everything was wonderfully normal and even mundane.
Lunchtime was usually spent with Ema and Spoon, but today I was supposed to meet with Coach Grady, the varsity basketball coach. Part of me was relieved about avoiding them. Don't get me wrong. I trusted them both with everything I had and owed them the complete truth, but Rachel had asked me not to say anything about going to see her after school. I couldn't just ignore that, could I?
In short, the best answer might also be the most cowardly: avoid.
As I headed for Coach Grady's office, I passed a somewhat familiar spot and felt a funny longing. It was Ashley's locker. Ashley had been sort of my girlfriend before she vanished. The Abeona Shelt
er--that is to say, Ema, Spoon, Rachel, and me--had saved her, I guess. The last time I saw her, she waved good-bye to me and left in a van driven by another member of Abeona.
Now, just a few days later, all signs of Ashley were gone. Her locker had a fresh lock on it. Some other kid had moved in, I guessed, and taken over her space. Ashley was gone as though she had never been there. I wondered where she was now. I wondered whether she was okay.
I knocked on Coach Grady's door.
"Come in."
This was not normally an office you wanted to visit. Mr. Grady was also the vice principal in charge of discipline. If you were called to his office, it was usually to get detention or be suspended.
Mr. Grady looked at me over half-moon reading glasses. "Close the door," he said.
I did. He invited me to sit. I looked around his office. There were no family photos, no trophies or photos of former basketball teams--nothing personal.
"So," he said, folding his hands and putting them on his desk, "how did you feel about tryouts yesterday?"
I wasn't sure how to answer that. "It was fun."
"You've clearly played basketball for a long time."
"Yes."
"I know you traveled around a lot in your youth, right?"
I nodded.
"Spent a lot of time overseas, played for a lot of different teams."
"Yes."
"What was the longest time you played with the same group of guys?"
"Two months," I said.
He made a face as though he had expected that answer.
"It's one of the reasons we moved back to the United States," I said. "See, my father wanted me to have that experience--to settle down and stay in the same place and play with a real high school team."
"Sort of like, oh, I don't know, the seniors on this team?"
I said nothing.
"This same group of boys has been playing basketball together since the fifth grade. They've won together on every level, and now, well, this is it for them. Next year they all go their separate ways."
There was nothing to add to that, so I stayed quiet.
"I also explained to you recently that I don't like having freshmen or sophomores play on the varsity team. In the dozen years I've been coaching here, I haven't had a sophomore on varsity yet, and this year, with five starters from last year's team returning . . ."
He stopped. This was not going the way I had hoped.
"But that said, I saw your uncle play when he was here. I know that he was a once-in-a-generation talent. After watching you yesterday, you may be that too. I don't know yet. I don't want to get ahead of myself. But my job as coach is to be fair and give everyone a chance. If what I saw yesterday was a fluke or maybe the competition wasn't that great, well, we will find out. But for now, I don't see how I cannot at least give you a shot at trying out for varsity."