Inside Hudson Pickle

by Yolanda Ridge

  “Yeah, you could say that, I guess.” I kicked at a rock with the new high-tops Mom had picked up for me. “It was an okay practice.”

  “Okay? You look pretty happy.”

  I smiled, just a little. Truthfully? I loved basketball more and more with every practice. A lot more than I thought I would, anyway. And a lot more than I wanted to with the risk of being cut hanging over me like a scoreboard over an NHL hockey arena. “What are you up to?”

  Willow tilted her head in the direction of the gym entrance. “Late practice.”

  “Oh, yeah, ’course,” I said, feeling like a total idiot. I’d seen the other girls warming up on the sidelines as we were cooling down. “Aren’t you late?”

  Willow shrugged. “I still have a few minutes. Where’s Trev?” She took a step toward me and looked around as if Trev might be hiding behind my back or something.

  “Walking home,” I mumbled as I lowered my head and sniffed, a pathetic effort at discreet underarm-odor detection. “I’m waiting for my uncle.”

  “How’d Trev do in practice?”

  “We spent most of our time on opposite sides of the gym, but I heard someone say that he won a foul shooting —”

  HONK, HONK!

  The blare of a car horn interrupted me. Willow covered her ears.

  “That’d be my uncle.”

  Willow looked sharply in the direction of Mom’s car. “Uh-huh?”

  “Yeah …” I said, although for a moment, I thought about denying it. I didn’t want Willow to think he was a dork — sitting in the driver’s seat of our old beater, laying on the horn and grinning like Sammy the Banana Slug. On the other hand, I didn’t want her to think he was handsome either. What if she started wondering why I hadn’t inherited his blond hair and blue eyes?

  “Okay, well, see ya,” she said.

  “Later,” I said as she walked away.

  “Oh, and you’d better be ready,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Ready?”

  She turned so she was facing me, but she kept walking backward toward the gym entrance. “Firefighting? Our interviews?”

  “Oh, I’ll be ready …”

  Willow pointed to herself, then to me and then back to herself. “I’m going to put you through the wringer.”

  I waved her off. Thanks to E. O., I figured I was already well on my way to becoming an expert on firefighting.

  Unfortunately, I still had a lot to learn.

  •••

  I got in the car, slamming the door extra hard behind me. “You’re late,” I said.

  “I didn’t see you rushing to the car.” Uncle Vic turned the radio down and started the engine. He never let it idle. I’d heard him lecture Mom about it hundreds of times because she always let the car warm up for ages. She even had one of those remote starters — or environment destroyers, as Uncle Vic called them.

  “You didn’t have to honk.”

  “Oh, yes, I did,” Uncle Vic said as we cruised onto the main road in front of the school. “You were in pretty deep with that girl.”

  “Her name is Willow.” As I said this, I could see her standing up to Aidan and hear her saying, His name is Hudson …

  “She’s cute.”

  “Whatever.” I shook my head, erasing the image of Willow’s confident smile. “And we weren’t in deep. We were talking about basketball practice.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  I threw my gym bag onto the backseat, wondering what Uncle Vic would say about Willow’s questions about Trev. Why did she care where he was or how he’d done in practice? She hadn’t asked me how I did or where I was going.

  This was something that an uncle — especially a single one with lots of dates — should be able to help out with. I might’ve asked him, too, if he’d expressed more interest. But he didn’t.

  I glanced at him as he sped through the school zone. Even though it was a cool fall day, he wore a faded T-shirt — displaying the logo of some obscure band — and mirrored aviator shades. This style, which had always seemed so cool (especially compared to Mom), suddenly struck me as a disguise. What happened to my hip, rock-star uncle? The one I used to look up to?

  When I was younger, we’d hung out a fair bit. But I hadn’t seen him much lately. He’d been too busy with his new band — and maybe other stuff as well.

  He used to take me on these awesome road trips. Once, we’d made the four-hour drive to Philly to watch the Flyers play the Sabres. Uncle Vic’s not much of a hockey fan, but he’d jumped on the Flyers bandwagon that season, and we’d had a great rivalry — until his Flyers beat out my Sabres in the first round of the playoffs.

  Uncle Vic had been flush with cash then, and he’d done a few gigs in Wilkes-Barre and Elmira on our way back home. The best part had been camping out at the side of the road, next to a lake. We’d attempted some fishing and then stayed up late telling ghost stories by a crackling fire. Mom would have freaked (and still would) if she’d found out we’d slept under the stars, surrounded by the bears and cougars that lived in the woods. Not to mention the sketchy guys who’d decided to camp there, too, and joined Uncle Vic for a beer. But we’d survived (obviously), and it had been one of the best trips ever.

  I reached forward, about to turn the radio up — Uncle Vic had found a classic rock station that was better than Mom’s country, but not much — when his phone beeped.

  “Is that a text?” he asked.

  “Dunno.” I glanced at the phone lying on the console between us. “You need to change the settings so it makes different tones for different functions. Sounds like you still have it on start-up mode. You can program it to make different tunes, you know, for each caller. You can even record your own riffs —”

  “Just check it for me, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, picking it up. “I can program it for you. You don’t even have this password protected. Dude, that’s just asking for trouble.”

  “Is it a text or not?” snapped Uncle Vic. “I’m expecting a text.”

  Without answering, I held up the phone so Uncle Vic could see the text.

  CALL ME NOW

  Uncle Vic squinted at the phone.

  “It’s from Sage,” I said, remembering the name from Uncle Vic’s interview with E. O. “Either it’s urgent, or she doesn’t know how to take it off caps lock.” I laughed a little at my own joke, but Uncle Vic was not amused.

  “Sh —” He hit the steering wheel with both hands and then swiveled his head to the left side — the quickest shoulder check in the history of driving. “Shoot. I need to find a place to pull over.”

  The last of my post-practice buzz drained from my body as I twisted the phone in my hand. “Just call her on the speakerphone.”

  “I can’t afford a ticket,” growled Uncle Vic.

  “You won’t get a ticket using hands-free —”

  “What?”

  “Just call her when we get there,” I said, deciding it was easier to simplify things. How did Uncle Vic, who promoted all his gigs on social media, know so little about technology?

  Uncle Vic put his foot on the gas. “Doesn’t it say call now?” His voice dripped with sarcasm — Mom’s specialty, not Uncle Vic’s. “Not call later?”

  “If you pull over to call, we’ll be late,” I insisted.

  The phone beeped. Another text from Sage.

  NOW! PKG ARRIVED … GOOD STUFF

  “What is it?” Uncle Vic swerved into the bike lane to pass a truck in front of us.

  “Nothing,” I lied. “Just a reminder about the first text. No big deal.” I crossed my fingers and hoped we’d make it there in one piece. And on time, so E. O. wouldn’t give up on us. Uncle Vic was worried about getting caught for using his phone while driving, but not for speeding? What about reckless driving? Or arson?<
br />
  “Do you want me to text back?” I asked. “Tell her you’ll call in five?”

  “No.” Uncle Vic turned onto a side street, tires squealing.

  I put my finger over the speaker, hoping to muffle the next beep, and turned the radio up high. A second later, there was another text. I looked anxiously at Uncle Vic, who either didn’t hear it or chose to ignore it. Driving along a residential road at high speed — narrowed to one lane because of all the pickups parked along the sides — obviously required a lot of attention. What kind of ticket would you get for hitting a cat or dog? What about a kid?

  I took my eyes off the road, even though it made my stomach flip with motion sickness, and read the message.

  BUT NO DEX FOR ROX

  Package? Stuff? Dex? Rocks? Sage was either really bad at typing or she was using code. Or both.

  I gripped the door handle as Uncle Vic peeled around another corner, almost fast enough to make the car go up on two wheels, like a stunt driver.

  Sage’s texts were suspicious. Was the “stuff” drugs? I once again considered the possibility that Uncle Vic was messed up with something. Addiction could explain a lot. And if he were a user, could he also be a dealer?

  We were getting close to his house. I could see blue tarps covering the roof, the edges blowing in the wind ahead of us. “Slow down!” I hissed. “You don’t want E. O. to see you driving like this!”

  “Chill, kid,” Uncle Vic said as he eased off the gas pedal and signaled right, even though there was no one behind us. “It’s not like he’s a cop. Remember what he said?”

  My stomach burned with a toxic mixture of motion sickness and suspicion as Uncle Vic pulled up to the house and then slammed on the brakes to parallel park. “But he knows!”

  “Knows what?” Uncle Vic demanded as he threw the car into reverse. “I don’t have anything to hide. Not from him!”

  The words sliced through me, and I fought to stay calm. Uncle Vic — a druggie? The more defensive he got, the more possible it seemed. The minute he cut the engine, I jumped out of the car, dropping his phone on the seat behind me.

  I could hear him muttering into it through the open car window as I rushed up the sidewalk, but I couldn’t make out the words. Not many, anyway.

  Okay, I did hear a few: hook-up, Dex and money.

  With each one, a sharp pain dug deeper and deeper into my side.

  If it wasn’t drugs, what the heck could it be?

  Chapter Nine

  E. O. was waiting near the front of the house, which was damaged beyond belief. Clear plastic covered the front entrance. The door and its frame were gone. All of the windows were smashed, and some of their frames had been cut.

  “Hey,” I said to E. O. as I approached, still fighting back motion sickness.

  “Hi, Hudson.” E. O. glanced at the big silver watch that stood out like a beacon on his black wrist. “I’m glad you’re here. I was starting to worry.”

  “Uncle Vic’s coming,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Thanks again for including me.”

  “Don’t mention it. Teaching is part of my mandate.”

  “I know, but with Uncle Vic being under investigation and all …” I said this to buy time. And also to get the inside scoop.

  “Your uncle’s not being investigated. The fire is.” E. O. kept his eyes fixed on the sidewalk behind me, obviously watching for Uncle Vic. “We have to look at it from all angles.”

  “Does it usually take this long to figure things out?”

  “Not always. Sometimes.” E. O. scratched his ear. “It can be a slow process. The answers aren’t coming easy in this case, partly because we’re extremely low on personnel right now.”

  “And Uncle Vic isn’t exactly being helpful …” I let my voice trail off, hoping E. O. would fill in the blanks.

  “Your uncle’s been cooperative. But his story’s not adding up. And the insurance investigator is after me for a report. They want evidence of negligence, so they can pursue compensation for the landowner’s claim.”

  The words floated in the air like a ball shot from the three-point line. Time seemed to slow down as I waited for them to sink in. “You mean they want to sue Uncle Vic for the cost of the house?”

  “I’ve said too much. Listen, Hudson, I don’t want you to worry about your uncle.” E. O. took a step forward so he could see around me, toward the car. “He is coming, right?”

  I nodded. “He had to make a phone call.”

  E. O. rifled through a file folder he had tucked under one arm. “I brought you an information package.”

  I tried to focus on what he was holding up, but my mind was still processing the stuff about negligence and compensation.

  “You know, for your project.” He handed me a thick envelope. “My business card is inside. Call me at the station if you have any questions.”

  “Thanks. I will.” As I slipped the package into the front pocket of my hoodie, a million questions ran through my mind. But I knew I wasn’t going to get any more information from E. O. Not about Uncle Vic and negligence, anyway. “Can you tell me about fire investigation? Signs of arson? You know, just general stuff for Career and Tech. That class is a killer.”

  While we waited for Uncle Vic, E. O. gave me a rundown on fire lingo: V-burn patterns (left on the wall when an object catches fire, with the bottom of the V pointing to the source of the fire), irregular-shaped patterns (often caused by puddles of flammable liquid that form on the floor) and flashover (a buildup of heat that causes an entire room to go up in flames).

  When Uncle Vic finally showed up, E. O. stopped midsentence.

  “Sorry,” said Uncle Vic as he stuffed the phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

  E. O. checked his watch again. “Okay,” he said to me, “I can show you more inside.”

  “Great!” I followed him around to the side entrance, which was covered with another piece of clear plastic. E. O. pulled it aside, making an opening just wide enough for us to enter.

  “You must’ve made quite an entrance.” Uncle Vic laughed nervously as he stopped at the door. Or what used to be a door, before it was smashed to smithereens.

  “Try not to touch anything.” Broken glass crackled under E. O.’s feet as he stepped further to one side so we could pass.

  Before going in, I looked around for the source of the glass and saw the remnants of an upstairs window. “Does the fire break the windows?” I asked. “Or the firefighters?”

  “Both.” E. O. pointed to a window behind him. “See that?”

  I nodded. Hundreds of cracks covered the glass, and there was a single hole in the middle of them, as if someone had knocked a spider out of its web. “Looks like a spiderweb.”

  “Exactly. Some people actually call it that — spiderweb glass. The technical term is window crazing.”

  “What causes it?” I asked, resisting the urge to reach out and touch.

  “Rapid heating or cooling of the glass.” E. O. watched Uncle Vic step into the house and motioned for me to follow without missing a word. “So either the heat from a fast-burning fire, like the kind started with accelerant, hitting a cold window or —”

  “Cold water from a fire hose hitting a hot window,” I finished.

  E. O. nodded his approval.

  “And the hole in the center?”

  “That was us. We break holes in all the doors and windows so smoke and fumes can escape.”

  “What about their frames?” I asked as I stepped into the apartment.

  “They’re cut open to make sure no fire is smoldering behind the woodwork.”

  “Cool,” I said, imagining myself climbing a ladder and jumping through a window into a room full of flames, just like the scene from that old movie Backdraft.

  “Watch your step.”

  I stopped inside the d
oor, letting my eyes adjust to the lack of light. “P.U.,” I said, holding my nose. Uncle Vic’s apartment reeked as bad as the lost-and-found box at the hockey rink.

  “Water damage. Often worse than smoke damage,” E. O. said. “The neighbors just moved back a couple days ago after the contractor finished cleaning up their place. We had to spray the houses on either side to ensure the fire wouldn’t spread.”

  “Cool,” I said again, even though I immediately regretted it when we reached the kitchen and Uncle Vic’s contorted face came into focus.

  His kitchen, which had never been particularly nice, was a complete and total disaster. The cabinets above the stove were torched. The fire must have spread up the walls from there.

  Uncle Vic opened a cupboard on the other side of the room. His head blocked my view of the inside.

  “Some things may have been moved,” E. O. said, “for the investigation.”

  Uncle Vic closed the cupboard, coughed and opened a drawer. After rummaging through its contents for a second, he slammed it shut and opened the next one. What was he looking for? It wasn’t like his guitar was in there, and I seriously doubted there was anything in this kitchen that could ever be used again.

  E. O. moved to the blackened oven. “According to your statement, Victor, the kettle was on this burner here?”

  I took a step closer to E. O. so I could hear him over Uncle Vic’s cough.

  Uncle Vic nodded without looking up. He was digging through a drawer like a dog in search of a bone.

  “Was there anything else on the stove?”

  “I don’t think so. Is it okay if I start gathering my stuff?” Without waiting for an answer, Uncle Vic stuck his head into the broom closet.

  “Could the fire have been electrical?” I hoped this was a smart question. It sounded like something you might hear in a TV show like Chicago Fire, which was really more of a soap opera than a show about firefighting (the only reason I could ever get Mom to watch it).

  “Could be, but electrical fires burn slowly, and this fire was quite advanced.” E. O. flashed me a smile that made me feel like his star pupil. A reaction I used to get from my hockey coach — but only when I scored the winning goal.