by B K Stevens
Davis chuckled, moved closer, and grabbed the front of my shirt. “Maybe your friend’s learned his lesson. How can I make sure you’ve learned yours?”
Tough-guy grab, I thought, and reached over the top of his hand, grabbed it, and pushed down with my thumb. Twisting my body, I pushed his elbow down with my left hand, getting him in an arm lock, bending him over. Then frantic knee strikes to his face, his stomach—not well aimed, but fear made them quick and hard. He crumbled to his knees, coughing.
I ran for Berk. “Get up,” I said. “Get in the car. We’ll—”
Already, Davis was back on his feet. Already, he’d caught up with me. He grabbed my wrist and kneed me in the stomach five or six times, knocking the wind out of me. Then, still gripping my wrist, he punched me in the kidney.
The pain stunned me. Barely aware of what had happened, barely able to stand, I started to fall forward. Davis launched a precise front kick, striking me in the stomach, grinning as I collapsed to the ground on my hands and knees. Lazily, not hurrying, he bent over me and wrapped his arm around my neck in a choke hold, pressing hard. I felt myself start to black out. One final burst of pressure against my throat, and he let me go.
“Don’t make me finish it,” he said softly, and walked to his car.
I stayed there in the mud, on my hands and knees, feeling the rain pound on my back, panting, trying to force air into my body, to stay awake, to stay alive. Berk stumbled over.
“Can you get up?” he said. “We gotta get to the car.”
I felt dizzy, only half-aware of the struggle to get to my feet, of the relief of letting myself fall against Berk as he pulled me toward the car. I didn’t seem to have any feeling in my arms. For a moment, I think I blacked out. The fear in Berk’s voice brought me back.
“How bad did he hurt you?” he asked. “Should we go to the hospital?”
“Your house,” I heard myself say. “I need time.”
Then I was in the car, collapsing against the seat, only half-listening as Berk gunned the motor again and again, cursing, until at last we were out of the mud and back on the road.
He helped me in through the back door that leads to his basement family room, got me a blanket, got me some water. As soon as I could manage, I called home. Berk and I had decided to study for the English test together, I told Mom. I’d be home in an hour or so. No, she didn’t need to bring zucchini cookies over. We’d picked up a pizza. I’d be sure to pack some cookies for lunch tomorrow.
I turned to Berk. “I’ve gotta wash my clothes. They’re covered in mud. If my parents see me like this, they’ll want to know why.”
He put my clothes in the washer, and I wrapped myself in the blanket and sat on the couch, measuring the pain in places Davis had struck. Stomach, kidney, throat—just soreness, nothing ruptured or broken. And he hadn’t marked my face, probably hadn’t left bruises that’d prove I’d been beaten up. Had he figured all that out in seconds? How good was he?
Berk came back. “God, Matt. I thought he was gonna kill you.”
“I thought so, too.” I forced a laugh. “Damn, that was pathetic. All the techniques I’ve learned, all the time I’ve spent practicing, and I just sat there in the mud, letting him squeeze the life out of me, no clue how to fight back.”
“Don’t be so rough on yourself. It was my fault. If I hadn’t charged him, if you hadn’t tried to help me—”
“No, it wasn’t your fault, either. He’s just too good. He’s way, way too good.”
“God,” Berk said, “what if Suzette had been with us? She usually is when we go down that stretch of road. Do you think he would’ve hit her, too?”
“He’s as low as they come. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d hit a girl.”
That was one thing to be grateful for. Bad as it’d been, if she’d been with us, it could’ve been much worse. Berk threw himself down in an armchair, and we both sat silently. We had lots of things to talk about, but we weren’t up to it. At first, I focused on breathing, on thinking about how good it felt to inhale and exhale normally again. I don’t think I’d ever realized what a big thing breathing is before.
Berk looked up. “We should warn Graciana and Joseph. Davis might come after them.”
That hadn’t occurred to me. “Davis might not know about them. We’re the ones he saw in Richmond.”
“He knows. He knew we’d gone to Richmond twice, and he said he’d promised somebody he’d make ‘you and your friends’ stop. We’ve got to warn them.”
“You’re right.” But I couldn’t stand the thought of calling them. I especially couldn’t stand the thought of having Graciana ask smart, sharp questions I was too groggy to answer. “Would you call? Say I feel too lousy to talk.”
He made the calls—a short one to Joseph, a much longer one to Graciana. I listened to him try to answer her questions, try to remember exactly what Davis had said, try to tell her, several times, that no, I really couldn’t talk. Finally, he signed off.
By then, my clothes were ready, so I got dressed, surprised at how painful something as simple as putting on a shirt could be. When I got home, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, and Mom was standing at the counter, talking on the phone. I waved and started toward the stairs, hoping I could sneak up to my room before they noticed how stiff I was. The worried edge to Mom’s voice made me stop.
“Are you sure?” she said. “I could come right now if—all right. First thing in the morning, then. I’ll start an inventory to estimate the damage. I’m so sorry, Sylvia. Please try not to worry.”
Sylvia. That was Mom’s boss, the owner of Wendy’s World. And something was wrong, and I had a sick feeling I already knew more about it than Mom did.
She hung up. “What happened?” I asked.
For maybe ten seconds, Mom stood rubbing her forehead, eyes squeezed shut. Then she gave me a bright little smile. “Oh, there was a small fire at the store tonight. No one was there, thank goodness, so no one got hurt, and the fire department put it out quickly. Sylvia says we lost some merchandise, and the place is a bit of a mess. But I’m sure the insurance company will come through. So! How was your study session?”
“Fine.” Don’t brush me off, Mom, I thought, half-angry at her. “How did the fire start?”
“Nobody knows yet. People love to speculate when something like this happens, of course, and they say lots of silly things. It’ll probably turn out to be something boring, like faulty wiring.”
“Is anyone talking about arson?” Dad asked.
Mom gave him a look. What did she think, that I’d have nightmares if he mentioned arson? “I guess some people are. Apparently, a back window was smashed in, and that didn’t seem to be caused by the fire. So some people are talking about Molotov cocktails, that sort of nonsense. But that seems so unlikely, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe not.” Dad’s face looked grimmer by the second. “Think about what happened to your windshield. We don’t get many troublemakers in Ridgecrest, but every once in a while, someone thinks it’s fun to destroy things, and sometimes people get hurt. We should all be extra-careful.” He turned in his chair to face me. “That means you, too, Matt. Keep your eyes peeled for trouble.”
I nodded. Now he tells me, I thought.
Twenty-four
I hardly slept that night. I was exhausted, I was hurting, but I couldn’t sleep. I’d lie on my bed a while, get up and pace, sit at my desk, lie down again, get up again. Nothing felt comfortable. Nothing felt right.
I felt positive Bobby Davis started the fire at Mom’s store. Before Berk charged him, Davis said he’d already done something to make us understand how serious the situation was. Smashing a window at Wendy’s World and throwing a Molotov cocktail through it would be a dramatic thing to do. He was threatening my family now, not just me.
And he knew where my mother worked. Had he learned that from the
person who hired him to kill Coach? That meant they were still working together, probably meant the person knew me. Davis had said we’d been “asking people questions, making them nervous,” and he said he’d promised someone he’d make us stop. So this “someone” knew we were questioning people, and that was making him or her nervous. That had to mean we were getting close.
I ought to feel good about that, but I couldn’t. We never should’ve started this stupid investigation, I thought. We jumped in without thinking about what the consequences might be, for us or anyone else. We’ve stirred things up, we’ve upset people, bad things had happened, and who knows what might happen next?
Just this morning, getting kicked off the basketball team had seemed like the biggest catastrophe I could imagine. Now, it was low on the list.
We still didn’t know how badly Marie was hurt, or whether she’d recover completely. If she didn’t, it’d be partly our fault. If we’d left her alone, her brother wouldn’t have beaten her up like that.
And Graciana didn’t think Marie would accuse me of beating her up, but I wasn’t sure. Yes, Marie would probably love to accuse Ted and get him sent to prison, but what if the charges didn’t stick? What if he got a short sentence? She was probably afraid he’d come after her for revenge, and he probably would. I was sure she’d feel bad about accusing me, but if Ted told her to do it, she might be scared not to. Any minute, the doorbell might ring, and I’d get arrested.
Even that might not be my biggest worry. Davis killed Coach, he smashed the windshield, and tonight he started a fire at Wendy’s World and ran Berk and me off the road.. And he had said, “Don’t make me finish it.”
If he decided to come after us again, he could finish it. He could kill us both in minutes. That wasn’t an opinion. It was a fact.
Or what if he came after the car when I wasn’t in it? What if he ran it off the road while Mom was driving Cassie to a viola lesson? What if he did it on an isolated road, took out the tire iron, and—no. I blocked the image before it took shape.
I had to warn my mother. I had to tell my parents everything, right away. They’d panic for sure—no way could they handle this. They’d say no more krav maga, even though krav had nothing to do with it. They might not want me to see Berk anymore, or Graciana or Joseph, since they were involved. They might not want me to leave the house; they might be afraid to leave the house themselves. Maybe Cassie would get her wish, and we’d move to another city, where neither of them would have a real job.
I sat at my desk. And they’ll never trust me again, I thought. I’d kept too much from them. I’d told too many lies and half-lies. With everything else I had to worry about, the thought of my parents not trusting me hurt more than I’d ever thought it would.
I’d kept things from them before. For years, I’d told them lots of little lies and never worried about it. It’d felt like a game, to see how much I could get away with.
I’d gotten away with a lot, because they’d always believed me. Lots of times, I’d smirked at them for being gullible. Now, I realized how much I’d miss having them trust me.
Restlessly, I opened my desk drawer and saw Coach Colson’s yellow pad—the pad I’d picked up after he was killed, filled with notes about the tournament and doodles of ducks and two flowering trees and lopsided houses. I turned to the page with notes about Berk: “Quick techniques, but keep control. Don’t let emotions choose your moves.” I started to turn the page, then read the words again. That really sums Berk up, I thought—not just how he spars, but how he makes decisions about everything from what to have for lunch to whether to attack Bobby Davis. I’d read Coach’s comment before, but I hadn’t realized how perceptive it was. It was like what Ms. Nguyen says about poetry—when you read carefully, you see meanings you miss if you read quickly.
Struck by a thought, I got my trig notebook and turned to the page where I’d copied Nina Ramsey’s text messages. It’s official—tomorrow night, Little Becky deflowers Captain America in a doubly shady spot! Take that, Big Brother! Little Becky was Nina’s nickname for herself, Marie said, and Captain America was her nickname for Paul. So we’d assumed that if Nina had been killed, the message pointed to Paul.
Or maybe it pointed away from him.
Marie thought Nina and Paul met at the bridge after school that day. They agreed to get together the next night. Nina sent Marie the text message. Then something went wrong, and Paul threw Nina off the bridge.
Now, I realized the sequence didn’t make sense. Marie said Nina had been working at seducing Paul for weeks. When she finally succeeded, would she interrupt the moment by saying, “Excuse me—I have to text my little sister”?
No. Nina must’ve sent the message after Paul left. She sent it when she was standing on the bridge alone.
Paul could’ve come back, of course, and that could’ve been when things went wrong. Or maybe someone else had come along.
Take that, Big Brother.
Yesterday, when Marie and I were at the cemetery, Ted Ramsey showed up out of nowhere. He knew Marie went to the cemetery after school, and he was so intent on controlling her that he’d come after her.
Maybe he’d been intent on controlling Nina, too, and he’d known she’d be at the bridge. Maybe he’d shown up there after Paul left and Nina sent her text message.
Now Nina’s death was easy to imagine. If Ted had seen Paul, maybe he’d told Nina she had to stay away from him—or she had to go home, or she couldn’t wear that top anymore.
And Nina defied him. Marie said Nina had never backed down from either her father or her brother, and she and Ted had gotten into awful fights. Maybe he’d knocked her down and she’d hit her head, and he’d been afraid she was dead or so badly hurt her injuries would send him to prison. So he’d thrown her off the bridge, and later he’d sent Marie a text message to make it look as if Nina committed suicide.
I started pacing. Everything made sense now. I’d never been able to picture Paul killing someone, but Ted—no problem. He’d beaten Marie up, probably while she was crying and begging him to stop. If Nina fought back, if she insulted him, he’d hit her as hard as he could.
The picture of Paul at Nina’s grave made sense now, too. He’d liked Nina, or at least been attracted to her, so he felt bad when she died. If he worried she’d had regrets about deciding to have sex with him and that somehow caused her suicide, he’d feel really bad. He didn’t go to her funeral, because he wanted to keep their relationship secret, so he found a private moment to put a flower on her grave. Perfectly natural. Mystery solved.
Something else occurred to me, something that made me stop pacing. If Ted went to prison for beating up Marie, he might come back for revenge before long. If he went to prison for murdering Nina, Marie wouldn’t have to worry he’d get out any time soon. And I wouldn’t have to worry she’d decide to protect herself by accusing me.
I’d still have to worry about Bobby Davis, though. Or would I? Ted kept close tabs on Marie. Maybe he knew she’d talked to Coach about Nina’s death, and maybe something made him think Coach suspected him. Ted seemed like someone who’d enjoy watching people pound on each other. Maybe he knew about the fight club and decided to hire Davis. If we could find solid evidence and get Hill to arrest them both, one of them might panic and try to make a deal by testifying against the other. That happens on television; it probably happens in real life, too. Then Ted Ramsey and Bobby Davis would both go to prison for a long time, Marie would be safe, my family would be safe, and both Coach and Nina would get some justice.
I threw myself down on my bed, feeling both excited and frustrated. Finally, I had a theory that made sense, a suspect who seemed capable of murder. But it was too late. Tomorrow, I had to tell my parents the truth, and that’d end everything.
I sat up. Did I have to tell them tomorrow?
Maybe tomorrow would be the worst possible time to open up and have
my parents overreact. If we pushed to find solid evidence, we might make a breakthrough soon, and my parents might never have to know about all the lies and secrets.
Or maybe I just wanted to believe that.
I spent the next few hours debating, pacing, sitting at my desk, lying wide-eyed on my bed. At some point, I drifted off, and I didn’t wake up until Mom knocked on my door, saying I’d be late for school if I didn’t hurry. I grabbed a handful of zucchini cookies for breakfast and got going. I felt stiff and had a deep pain in my side, but I wasn’t limping, and I didn’t have new bruises. Nobody could know what happened last night just by looking at me.
One or two days, I decided. After that, if we haven’t figured things out, I’ll quit, and I’ll tell my parents and face whatever happens. But if we give this one or two more days, or three or four, maybe we can pull this off.
Twenty-five
I didn’t forget to leave my notes at Dr. Lombardo’s office, or to make copies first. It felt like weeks since we’d sat listening to Dr. Lombardo lecture us, but it’d been one day. Unbelievable.
During the English test, I fell asleep. It didn’t make much difference—I would’ve flunked anyway. But I felt embarrassed when Ms. Nguyen kept stopping by my desk, speaking softly, trying to help me stay awake. She talked to me after class, eyes all sympathetic, asking if I’d been having trouble sleeping since Mr. Colson died. I said no, I was tired from sports, but I don’t think she believed me. Too bad. I didn’t want to use Coach as an excuse for flunking.
At lunch, Suzette cornered me again, saying she’d saved us seats. I didn’t feel like it, but I also didn’t have the energy to come up with a way of getting out of it. So I nodded.
As usual, Suzette took charge of the conversation. “Oh, my God. You wouldn’t believe how awful that reunion last night was! Four of my dad’s old basketball buddies and their wives and kids, all squeezed into the back room at Melinda’s Grill. It was so noisy and stuffy. Then Mr. Quinn said we were going to play games. Games! He divided us into teams for a ‘Ridgecrest High, Then and Now’ version of Jeopardy! He’d put all the questions into a PowerPoint presentation.”