Ethan's Secret (James Madison Series Book 2)

by Patrick Hodges

  “Look,” I said, trying to sound as sincere as possible, “I'm so sorry about Tuesday. I'm nosy, and I'm pushy. I know that. It's my worst quality.”

  He came to an abrupt halt, causing me to do the same, and then turned to face me. “No, it's not. It's actually one of the things I like about you.”

  I smiled. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, nodding. “And I would give anything to be able to tell you … everything. But I can't …” I could see the anguish in his eyes.

  “I know, Ethan,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I promise I won't ask any more. I just want us to be friends, okay?”

  He stood silently for a few moments, lost in thought. Then, finally, he smiled and nodded again, extending his hand. “You got it, Detective. Friends?”

  I gave a small laugh, relief washing over me. I took his hand and shook it vigorously. “Friends.”

  We resumed walking, stopping again when we reached Mr. Chambers' classroom. Before he could go inside, I asked, “You doing anything this weekend?”

  He looked back at me blankly. “Not sure yet. Why?”

  I shuffled my feet, feeling the blood suddenly rushing to my face. “I was just wondering … if you wanted to … you know, ask me out again.”

  He seemed to consider this for a moment. “I'd … like that. Maybe … we can plan something for next weekend.”

  Whew. That's still a week away, but I'll take it. I smiled. “Sounds good. Bleachers, Monday?”

  “Okay,” he said, smiling as well. I looked in his eyes, and my heart started to beat faster when I saw that the twinkle had returned. “See you then.”

  “Bye,” I said, and he turned and walked into the classroom.

  I stood there, watching him through the doorway. I don't think I realized until now just how important he's become to me. He's part of my life now. And he still wants me to be part of his. You have a second chance, you nosy little girl, don't blow it!

  “So is everything okay now?” said a voice from behind me. I turned to see Penny standing there, smiling.

  “Well, I don't think we're quite back to 'okay,' Pen, but we're on our way there,” I said.

  “Good. You think April will be all right tomorrow?”

  I sighed. Between worrying about Ethan, Bree's mood and Dad's health, I'd given almost no thought to April's party invitation. April asked Trey last night if she could bring one or more of her friends along, but he refused. Knowing what I did about Trey, this did not surprise me at all. I hoped, once again, that April would be okay on her own in a house full of older boys. She told us her parents were cool with her going, but I didn't believe a word of it. I just couldn't escape the feeling that something bad was going to happen. “I hope so,” is all I could say.

  Then an idea flashed through my brain. “Hey, Penny, how long would it take you to get to the far end of the upper concourse overlooking the main parking lot after class?”

  “Not very long,” Penny replied, puzzled. “Why?”

  “Meet me there right after sixth period. I want to get a look at this black car you said you saw.” I gave her a wicked grin. “You just got promoted to Watson.”

  Penny nodded, grinning as well. “You got it, Sherlock.” Then she, too, went into the classroom.

  * * *

  After the sixth-period bell rang, I practically bolted out of my seat. I walked quickly through the door of my Social Studies classroom before breaking into a dead run. I crossed the upper concourse in about twenty seconds, skidding to a halt when I rounded the corner, almost colliding with Penny in the process.

  “Geez, Kelse!” Penny said, holding me by the arms.

  “Sorry,” I said, catching my breath. “Is he down there?”

  “Not yet, but Logan is.”

  I peered over the railing and saw a ten-year-old boy waiting by the curb. Penny was right, Logan did look a lot like Ethan; same clothes, same spiky hair. A few seconds later, Ethan walked up and stood next to him. Together, they stared intently at the far end of the main parking lot, where the entrance gate was.

  “Don't say anything,” I whispered. “We don't want him to hear us.”

  “He's too far away,” Penny replied. “He wouldn't hear us anyway.”

  I made a face. “Just shush.” I opened the outer pocket of my backpack, taking out a pair of miniature binoculars. I put them up to my eyes, trying to get a better look.

  I'm not investigating him, I told myself. I just have to make sure this black car I've been looking at all week is the same one that's picking him up. I'm doing a public service. You never know what creeps might be hanging around outside schools these days.

  Rationalization complete, I heard Penny whispering. “Uh, Kelse, I know you're into him and all that, but I think we just crossed the 'psycho-line' into stalking. I hope you know what you're doing.”

  A couple of minutes passed, and Penny and I continued to watch the Zimmer brothers. Penny was starting to get nervous. “We're gonna miss our bus!” she said through clenched teeth.

  “One more minute,” I replied.

  Just then, a huge black car barreled in through the entry gate and drove the length of the parking lot several miles per hour faster than the posted limit. I wasn't an expert on cars or anything, but it sure looked like the car that had been waiting just outside school property every day this week.

  The numerous speed bumps didn't even slow it down. The car screeched to a halt in front of the curb where Ethan and Logan were waiting. Whoever was driving didn't get out of the car to greet them; they didn't even turn the motor off. Ethan opened the back door, and Logan and then he climbed in. Once the door was closed, the car sped off through the exit gate. And then they were gone.

  “Well, that was a complete waste of time,” said Penny.

  “Not quite,” I said, putting my binocs back in my backpack.

  “Kelse, if I have to call my mom to pick me up, she's gonna be pissed,” Penny said tensely, swaying back and forth as if ready to break into a full sprint in the next moment.

  “Okay, let's go,” I said, and together the two of us ran at top speed down the stairs and toward the faculty parking lot, which was also where the school buses departed. We just barely made it in time.

  Gasping for air, I fell into a seat near the back. Within seconds, my cell phone rang. Digging it out of my backpack, I hurriedly tapped the “Phone” icon.

  “That was too close,” came Penny's breathless voice. “Can we not do that again?”

  “We won't,” I replied. “I already got what I needed.”

  I heard Penny draw in a deep breath. “Which was?”

  “That car had government plates.”

  Chapter 23

  ~ DAY 27 (Sat.) ~

  KELSEY

  Weekends are supposed to be fun when you're a kid.

  I mean, think about it: there's no school, you can sleep in, and when you're the daughter of a single dad who works on Saturdays, the sky should be the limit.

  Unless, of course, it's raining, the nearest mall is thirty minutes away by bike, and all your friends are “busy.”

  Penny told us earlier this week that she was indeed resuming her contemporary dance lessons. April had her hot date later tonight, and I chickened out of asking Bree to come over, because I figured doing so would only lead to more drama.

  I would have given anything just to be able to talk to Ethan, if only for a few minutes, but if he even had a Facebook page, a Twitter account, an e-mail address or a phone number, he had yet to share it with me. Leave it to me to develop a crush on the least accessible boy in school.

  So I slipped into my usual “home-alone weekend” routine. I ate a bowl of Raisin Bran with a glass of OJ, finished my homework and did my chores. I put on some music and did some silly dances while I pushed the vacuum cleaner around the living room, but that got boring real fast.

  By noon, I had finished my cleaning, the laundry was in the dryer, and I snuck in a few laps in the pool. It was sprinkling
, but there was no thunder or lightning, and a refreshing dip always did wonders for my energy. After drying off and changing back into my weekend “around the house” clothes, I sat down in front of the TV to look for something interesting. All I could find was the D'Backs game, so I sat down and watched them trounce the Mets. I was excited for the playoffs, which would be starting soon. My team had already clinched a playoff spot, and were wrapping up their best season in years.

  With victory well in hand, I put the TV on “mute” and sat back, lost in thought. Yesterday, I had gotten another piece to the puzzle that was Ethan, but now it all made less sense than ever.

  I vowed to myself this week that I wasn't going to ask Ethan about his past, or pry into his personal life in any way, and I was going to stick to that promise. But this latest revelation had thrown me for a loop. Try as I might, I couldn't put all the pieces together.

  Ethan and Logan were picked up, and presumably dropped off, every single day, by a black car with government plates. But the car didn't just transport them, it parked itself outside school grounds for the entire day. It was logical to assume that whomever was driving the car remained inside it all day long.

  I was sure there were thousands of people who worked for the government, but they couldn't possibly all get big shiny black cars to drive their kids to school in. Whoever Ethan and Logan's father was, he had to be someone important, important enough to warrant a security detail. Ethan had told me that their father was a construction supervisor, but this was probably a fib. I mean, if his dad was a high-up politician, I could see why he wouldn't want his classmates to know, particularly if their dad was under investigation or something.

  But this theory didn't hold water either. Politicians were all about their image: they needed to look as squeaky clean as possible in order to get elected, and, by extension, so did their wives and kids. I couldn't imagine any politician doing photo ops with Ethan and Logan, introducing them as his spiky-haired-hard-rock-bad-boy sons. That wouldn't go over well with potential voters.

  Just to make sure, I checked the Internet to see if any local or federal politicians had recently lost their wives, or were under investigation for anything. Unsurprisingly, nothing came up. I really, truly hoped that Ethan's story about losing his mom wasn't just another fib.

  Over the last few years, I'd become addicted to shows like CSI and Criminal Minds, shows that really explored the minute details that went into crime-solving, much like my favorite fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes. I'd read every story Arthur Conan Doyle had ever written about Holmes by the age of nine, and it just went from there. I wanted to do the kinds of things that he did. He always found that one clue, that one piece of evidence that ended up nailing the bad guy.

  But real life is not a detective story. In real life, there are dead ends, blind alleys, and often dozens and dozens of leads that never go anywhere. Even after all I've learned about Ethan, it still doesn't make sense. One plus one plus one equals zero.

  As Holmes often said, “Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” The problem with that was, I had no theories left, impossible or improbable, that fit the facts as I knew them.

  Sigh. How do REAL detectives cope with this level of frustration?

  I was starting to care about Ethan, even more deeply than I thought I could. But it all boiled down to one thing: I'm just a thirteen-year-old girl, and whatever trouble he's in, it's unlikely that I can help him get out of it. All I can do is be his friend, let him know I'm there for him.

  When my dad walked through the door at just past 6:00 p.m., I was practically climbing the walls in boredom. The rain had stopped, and the sun was shining again, the storm clouds having zoomed over the horizon like they had an appointment on the other side of the planet. I almost jumped into his arms, but checked myself when I saw four full plastic bags in his hands. “Dad!” I squealed.

  “Hey, K-Bear,” he said, giving me a hug after he'd deposited all of the bags on the kitchen counter. “How was your day?”

  I was so glad to see him, I decided to forego my usual snarky comeback. “It was fine. D'Backs kicked the Mets' butts, eight to two.” I peeked in the plastic bags, and my eyes lit up when I saw hamburger patties, hot dogs, two packages of pre-sliced American cheese, two huge bags of ruffled potato chips, and an array of condiments. That only meant one thing.

  “Ooh! Are we grilling?”

  “Yes, we are,” he said with a smile, holding up his hand, which I promptly high-fived. Dad was a grill master – or at least, that's what his barbecue apron said. I don't know if the apron came with a certificate, but my dad could definitely grill a mean burger. “And Uncle Walter will be joining us in an hour or so.”

  “Yay!” This day was getting better and better. I hadn't seen Uncle Walter in three months. “Is it just going to be the three of us?”

  “We may have a few other members of Phoenix's Finest dropping in,” he said. “You want to set up the tables and chairs outside?”

  “You got it, Daddy Bear,” I said.

  I went outside, where most of the rainwater that had collected on the patio had dried up. I switched on the grill, popped open the two big umbrellas that covered the outdoor dining tables, and used a rag to dry off any remaining moisture. We were ready to barbecue, Callahan-style.

  By seven o'clock, Dad had donned his chef's apron and was doing his thing. The smell was wonderful. I was practically salivating. Thankfully, the doorbell rang just as I was about to ask my dad for a sample burger, extra-extra-rare. I flung the door open, and saw a familiar face smiling down at me. He was in his late fifties, quite tall, clean-shaven, with short gray hair and fiercely intelligent blue eyes.

  “Uncle Walter!” I yelled, wrapping my arms around his waist. “So great to see you again!”

  “Hey, angel,” he said, returning the hug. “Man, you get taller and prettier every time I see you!”

  I smiled. “So do you, Uncle Walter.”

  He grinned. This was our usual greeting, and had been for years. I took one of the plastic bags he was carrying from him as he walked in. As was his custom, he brought the beer and soda.

  I led him into the backyard, where Dad greeted Walter with a huge grin. “Glad you could join us, Wally,” he said. “We got meat, we got spuds, and now we got suds!”

  Walter put the drinks down on the nearest table, and I noticed that the smile had faded from his face. “Marty, we need to talk. Now. Alone.” He shot a regretful look at me. “Sorry, sweetie.”

  I was shocked. Walter had been over dozens of times, but never once had I been ordered out of the room before. I looked at Dad, who had locked eyes with Walter, and after a few seconds of steely-eyed silence, he turned to me. “Kel, go inside.”

  “Dad, what's going on?” I replied, trying my best to look hurt.

  “Kelsey Marie Callahan,” he said, frowning, “go inside. Now. And close the door, please.”

  There it was. Every kid hates the dreaded “full name,” which was the universal parents' code for “I really mean it, so don't mess with me on this one.” Dad hadn't used that tactic on me since I was eight. Realizing how serious the situation must be, I simply nodded and walked into the house, sliding the door shut behind me.

  I watched the two of them speak through the glass of the sliding French doors that led to the backyard. Dad and Walter's voices were raised, but I still couldn't hear them. Walter was making emphatic gestures with his hands, and Dad's face was a mixture of anger and frustration.

  Uh-oh.

  This was torture. Every curious bone in my body screamed for information. After a couple of minutes, I couldn't take it anymore.

  I ran to my room, closing the door behind me. My bedroom window looked out into the backyard, and thankfully, I hadn't opened the blinds since waking up this morning. Peering through a tiny crack between the blinds, I could see Dad and Walter talking, about twenty feet away.

  I gingerly reached throu
gh the blinds and unhooked the window-lock. Then, using both hands, I grasped both ends of the window and slid it open with a soft scraping sound. After creating an opening wide enough to hear through, I ducked down beneath the level of the window, peering through the crack. Dad and Walter's conversation continued uninterrupted, so they hadn't heard me.

  “… this happen?” Dad was saying.

  “I don't know, Marty,” said Walter. “Morrison slipped past his security detail and took a cab to his mother's house. But he never made it there.”

  “Spectacular,” my dad said drily.

  Walter sighed. “It gets worse. The local networks got a hold of it, and plastered it all over the six o'clock news. Within twenty minutes, three other witnesses phoned their lawyers and recanted their statements.”

  Dad turned his back and walked several paces away. I could almost see him shaking in anger. “God dammit!” he yelled, and I instinctively ducked down again, knowing this was the worst possible moment to be caught eavesdropping.

  After a long pause, I heard my Dad's voice again, much calmer this time. “So whom do we think is responsible? The Croatians? The Serbians?”

  “You got me, Marty. Lynch's got more underworld contacts than Satan himself. The best intel we have is that it's the Argentinians.”

  I peeked through the window again. Dad's face was livid. “Oh, that's great. The Argentinians just snapped their fingers and made a witness disappear. That's just perfect.”

  “What can we do?” I could feel the desperation in Walter's voice. “Those people have the resources, the manpower, and the money. They can get to anyone, anywhere. What can we poor city cops do against that?”

  Dad slumped down in the nearest deck chair. “What do you want from me, Walter? I'm not part of this taskforce, remember?”

  “Yes, but you know better than anyone what we're up against.”

  “Who do we have left?”

  “Lynch's mistress, Sasha Glouchkov, and the bookkeeper, Jeffrey Campbell.”

  “Do they know about Morrison?”

  “I'm not sure,” Walter said. “Sasha's already scared out of her mind, so I wouldn't be surprised if she backs out as well. As for Campbell, well, I doubt even this would scare him off.”