As I stepped back, Orion tensed and strained against his leash. It took a second before I saw why. Up ahead, a man in a dark suit cut across the alley. Orion pulled toward him. I had to keep a firm grip on his leash to stop him from bolting. If the man had come my way, I would never have been able to hold Orion. Thank goodness he had headed somewhere else. In fact, he had gone in the same direction as Nick and Beej.
And he was wearing aviator sunglasses.
The man in the beat-up old gray car in front of the Bellagios’ this morning had been wearing aviator sunglasses. The man sitting in the car near Somerset yesterday hadn’t been, but his car had been old and gray, just like the one outside the Bellagios’. He’d sat there for a long time. He’d been sitting there while I waited for Nick and he’d still been sitting there later when I was talking to him—more than an hour total.
Was it the same guy? If it wasn’t, what was a man in a suit doing in an alley, and why had he gone in the same direction as Nick and Beej?
I shook my head. This wasn’t cloak-and-dagger spy stuff. This was Trisha, who had run away from home. And, okay, on TV, when you see a guy in aviators parked in a car like that, you think he’s watching someone. But this wasn’t TV. This was real life—a real-life case of a guy who had asked my father to look for a runaway girl. My father, who was very good at what he did. My father, who hadn’t been one hundred percent satisfied that I was telling him the truth. Who had spoken out in the hall to Mr. Hanover about an hour before he suddenly appeared in the high-school parking lot with the letter. Who was known for doing whatever it took to finish a job. What had Carl Hanover said that first time I’d met him in my father’s loft? The end justifies the means. I wondered about why Mr. Hanover had given me the letter. Maybe the letter wasn’t the point at all. Then I started to get angry.
I tied the dog leashes to a disgustingly sticky bar that ran along the side of the dumpster. Then I ran down the alley to look for the man in the aviator sunglasses.
When I reached the corner where Nick and Beej had disappeared, I stopped and peeked around carefully. No Nick. No Beej. No man. I rounded the corner and ran quietly along the alley until I reached a street. The alley continued on the other side, and I saw someone moving stealthily down it. Someone in a dark suit. I crossed the street and hung back in the mouth of the alley until the man turned left.
When I reached the corner where he had turned, I hung back again. I peeked around and saw him. He didn’t check behind him because, well, why should he? As far as he was concerned, he was the follower.
I kept a steady pace as we moved south into an area of the city filled with housing projects and homeless shelters. The streets became progressively more rundown. They were lined with bargain outlets, secondhand stores, and pawnshops. The alleys weren’t as deserted in this part of town, and I began to wish I had brought Orion and Bunny with me. A toothless old man gazed up at me through glazed eyes as I went by. I scurried past him and kept moving until I saw the man in the aviator sunglasses disappear into what looked like an abandoned building. The windows on the first couple of floors were boarded over and the outside brickwork was covered with graffiti. I peeked around the corner and watched the man push a loose board aside and step into the building. I glanced around but didn’t see anyone else. I approached the building cautiously and let myself in the same way the man in the sunglasses had.
The only light inside came down from grimy windows on the third floor. Fast food wrappers, pop cans, candy bar wrappers and other things that I didn’t even want to think about littered the floor. The air was sharp and foul smelling and reminded me of the time we set up camp too close to an outhouse. I stood there, trying not to gag while I strained to listen. Nothing. No, a murmur. Up above. Voices? Beej? Nick? Trisha? What about the man in the sunglasses? Where was he?
I started up the stairs, which were also littered with trash, and. . . something skittered on the stairs where I was about to put one sneakered foot. I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle the scream rising in my throat. A rat? Where there was one rat. . . .
I stood there, frozen, until the skittering stopped. I swallowed my terror as I tiptoed up the stairs toward the low hum of a male voice. At first, I thought it must be Nick, but when I peeked around a corner, I saw the man in the dark suit, his sunglasses tucked into his jacket pocket. He was talking softly into a cell phone. Then he shut off the phone and started silently down the hall. I pulled back in case he turned around. When I peeked out again, he was opening a door at the end of the hall. As he shouldered his way through it, I heard a shout, followed by a scream. I ran down the hall toward the door.
When I got there, I saw that the man in the dark suit had Trisha by the arm. Nick was all over the guy, trying to wrench Trisha free. Beej was holding the envelope and a piece of paper—the letter, I guessed—and was grabbing at Trisha’s purse. She turned and stared at me when I came into the room. So did Trisha. She looked accusingly at me. Nick hit the man in the dark suit. He staggered back, still holding tight to Trisha. Trisha let out a scream. I saw the man’s hand curl into a fist and he lashed out, punching Nick hard in the belly. I was glad the man was holding onto Trisha. I had the feeling that if he’d let go of her, he’d have gone at Nick with both fists swinging. All the air went out of Nick and he sank to his knees, doubled over.
Next I heard footsteps thundering up the stairs behind me. Then I heard them at the end of the hall, pounding closer and closer. Suddenly, two more men burst into the room. One of them was Carl Hanover.
“Trisha,” he said. “Thank goodness.”
Trisha’s eyes widened when she saw him. She struggled even harder.
Mr. Hanover turned to me. “Robyn,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough for finding her.These men are friends of mine. I asked them to come with me, to help me make sure that Trisha gets home safely.” He turned to Trisha. “It’s time to come home,” he said.
Nick was still on his knees, one hand on the floor to steady himself. He looked up at me, his face filled with bitter disappointment. Trisha struggled. Beej dove in, grabbing at Trisha’s purse again, yanking it as if she thought she could use it to pull Trisha away from the men. One of the men turned and shoved Beej, sending her reeling. She lost her balance and crashed to the floor.
“Gently, please,” Mr. Hanover said to the man. “These kids were only trying to help Trisha.” He turned to Beej. “Isn’t that right?”
Beej scowled at him. Mr. Hanover didn’t seem to notice. “Come on, Trisha,” he said. “I have a car outside. Your mother is so worried.”
Trisha kicked out at him. Carl Hanover nodded at the man in the dark suit and the other man. They were both holding Trisha. She was still struggling, but not as much now.
“Don’t let them take me away!” she said, looking to Beej and Nick. “Please.”
“Let’s get you home before your mother suffers anymore,” Carl Hanover said.
“What have you done to her?” Trisha said.
“What have I done to her?” Carl Hanover said. “Your disappearing act has put her in the hospital.”
“The hospital?” Trisha said, her voice small and weak now. She glanced at me as the men led her to the door. She didn’t seem angry at me anymore. Instead, there was a different expression on her face.
Beej ran at the two men holding her.
“Hey, wait a minute,” she yelled, grabbing at Trisha’s purse again. One of the men turned to Mr. Hanover, who shook his head. The man pushed Beej firmly aside and the two of them escorted Trisha from the room, half-carrying, half-dragging her.
Mr. Hanover squeezed my shoulder. “Thank you, Robyn,” he said. “Denise will be so grateful. I won’t say that she’s blind to Trisha’s behavior, especially the way she’s been always running away. But you know how mothers are. They love their children no matter what.”
“My dad told me about your wife,” I said. “I’m sorry. I hope she’s going to be okay.” It sounded lame, I know. But it was all I cou
ld think of to say.
Nick struggled to his feet and staggered to the door. For a moment, I thought he was going to go after Trisha. Then, smack. My cheek stung from the force of Beej’s hand. She glared at me, her eyes filled with venom.
“Trisha was right about you,” she said.
“Robyn—” Mr. Hanover said.
“I’m okay,” I told him. “Really.”
He hesitated a moment before leaving the room. After he had gone, I turned to Beej. “I didn’t know this was going to happen,” I said.
Beej glared at me again. “Nick says you’re smart, but for a smart girl, you sure don’t know much. You led them right to her.” She thrust the envelope at me. “Letter,” she snorted. “Did you even look inside?”
“No, of course not,” I said.
Beej rolled her eyes and looked at Nick. “You’re actually going out with her?” she said.
“Look, I know you’re Trisha’s friend,” I said.
“Friend?” She looked at me as if I were insane. “I’m not her friend. That girl has too many problems to be my friend.”
“Then why did you just slap me?”
“Because, thanks to you, some valuable stuff of mine just walked out the door.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Trisha. She’s got stuff that belongs to me in her bag. Now I’ll probably never get it back.”
She stomped out of the room.
I looked in the envelope. When Mr. Hanover had first given it to me, I had felt something inside. I could see it now, a small, flat, round disc. But what was it? I tipped it out into my hand, looked at it again, and then turned to Nick.
“Tracking device,” Nick said. “Bet you anything.”
I stared at it and thought again about my father talking to Carl Hanover out in the hallway.
“Where are the dogs?” Nick said, his voice flat.
“Back in the alley where you left me,” I said. “Nick, honest, I had no idea. . . .”
My phone rang. While I fumbled for it, Nick headed for the door.
“Nick, wait.”
The phone rang again and Nick kept right on going. I pushed the talk button and said hello. I saw Nick start down the stairs at the same time as I heard my mother say, “Robyn, where are you? And don’t tell me you’re in the garage, because I was just there.”
If things are going to go bad, they might as well go all the way, I thought. I was in trouble—big trouble—with my mother. I figured that was the worst it could get.
“Mom, I—”
“Robyn, do you know where the General Hospital is?”
“Yeah, sure, but—”
“Meet me there. In the ER.”
“Why? Mom, what’s going on?”
“Your father’s there,” she said. “He’s hurt.”
“Hurt? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know yet. Just meet me there, Robyn.”
Ididn’t think about rats on the way down the stairs. I didn’t think about how angry I was that my father had probably helped Carl Hanover trick me. Instead, I thought: Hurt how? And how badly? I stepped into the gloom below, panicked until I found the loose board, squeezed out of the building, and raced down the alley to the nearest street. When I got there, I started waving frantically, desperate to flag down a taxi. I didn’t even think about money until I was in the back seat and the taxi was making its way through midday Saturday traffic to the hospital. I rummaged in my purse, worried that I wouldn’t have enough to pay the driver. I started to panic again, imagining the taxi driver locking me inside the car and calling the cops while my father was inside the hospital. It turned out I needn’t have worried. Henri Saint-Onge was standing outside the emergency entrance. She dashed over to the taxi as soon as it pulled up and paid the driver.
“Your mother’s inside,” she said, opening the door for me. “Come on.”
Henri (short for Henrietta) is Vern’s girlfriend. She’s small and round and has a quirky, totally unique wardrobe. She’s an artist.
“What happened?” I asked her. “Is my dad okay?”
“I don’t know. The police called, looking for Vern, but he’s up north on a job. He won’t be able to get a flight back until late tonight. They told me your father had been pretty badly beaten up. He was unconscious.” I swallowed hard. Unconscious wasn’t good. Unconscious could mean a serious injury. “They told me they’d called an ambulance and that he was on his way to the hospital. They asked who they should notify, so I told them your mother.” She looked a little worried. “I hope I did the right thing. She seems pretty shook up, considering.” Considering a three-year separation and a year-old divorce, she meant.
She was right. My mother’s face was pinched and pale. Her eyes were watery, as if she had been crying.
“Mom, have you heard anything?” I said. “Is he going to be okay?”
“I haven’t been able to get any information yet,” my mother said. She sounded angry. “They keep telling me they’ll let me know as soon as there’s any news.”
“I’ll go and ask again,” Henri said. She headed to the nurses’ station.
I sat down next to my mother.
“I’m not even going to ask why you weren’t where you were supposed to be,” she said.
“Henri said he was beaten up,” I said. “She said. . . .” I didn’t mean for tears to start dribbling down my cheek. Nor did I mean for my lips to start trembling, but they did.
My mother slipped an arm around me and held me tight. “Once, when you were just a baby, your father got a call. It was a bar fight. Most people break it up when the police arrive. But there were a couple of guys who were too drunk, I guess. One of the guys came at your father with a bar stool. Your dad ended up with a broken nose and a broken jaw. He was unconscious for hours. I was really scared. But he bounced right back. He’s like that, Robyn.” Even so, I could tell she was worried too.
Henri came back with a man in a suit. The man smiled at my mother.
“Patricia,” he said. “It’s been awhile.”
“Hello, Jim,” she said.
Jim looked at me. “You can’t possibly be Robyn,” he said.
“Robyn, this is Detective Harwood.”
“Actually, it’s sergeant now,” Sergeant Harwood said. “I used to work with your father.”
“What happened, Jim?” my mother said.
Sergeant Harwood sat down. “We won’t know for sure until we can talk to Mac. He was found in an old industrial park. His wallet is missing. His car isn’t anywhere in the vicinity. We don’t know whether he was out there for some reason or if he was taken there. We don’t know if it was a mugging or a carjacking or if it was something else. About the only thing we do know is that he’s lucky a security car that patrols the area drove by when it did. The two guys who were beating up Mac took off. The guard didn’t see where they went. He called it in and stayed to give first aid to Mac.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know if it was something else?” my mother said.
“It’s possible it was related to something he’s working on. Vern says he’s been looking into that fire up at the Doig place.”
My mother did not look pleased. “And to think I used to worry about him when he was with the police,” she said.
“We’re going to find out what happened, Patricia,” Sergeant Harwood said. “Don’t worry.”
But we did worry. And the longer we waited there, the more we worried. It seemed like forever before a woman wearing scrubs and a white lab coat came over to talk to my mother.
“Mrs. Hunter?” she said.
“It’s Ms. Stone,” my mother said. “We’re divorced. This is our daughter Robyn.” Then, sounding like someone who wasn’t even remotely divorced, she said, “How is he?”
The woman sat down beside my mother. She introduced herself and explained, “He’s suffered a concussion. He also has a ruptured spleen and a couple of cracked ribs.” My mother’s face went pale. I bit my lip to kee
p from crying. “We have everything more or less under control. His condition isn’t critical,” the doctor said,“but it is serious. We’re going to keep him here overnight.”
“May I see him?”
“For a few minutes,” the doctor said. She gestured to a nurse. “He’s sleeping.”
. . .
I think my mother was hoping that my father would wake up while she was there. I think she would have loved to see him grin, even though normally his grinning drove her crazy. She said it was something he did to convince you he was innocent or sincere when, in actual fact, he was hiding something.
He didn’t wake up. I thought maybe my mother would want to stay until he did. She stood beside his bed, watching him intently, frowning, as if she were trying to decide something. Then she said, “Come on, Robyn. We’d better get home.”
“But—”
“You heard what the doctor said. He’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah, but—”
“He’s sleeping. He’ll probably sleep all night.”
“But, Mom—”
“You can come back tomorrow,” she said.
Henri was waiting out in the hall. She asked if we wanted a ride home. My mother said no, she had her car. Henri said, “Are you sure you should be driving?”
My mother seemed surprised by the question. She said, “We’re divorced, Henri,” as if that had anything to do with it. Henri just nodded and said she was going to stick around and wait for Vern, if that was okay with my mother. My mother said, “Why wouldn’t it be?”
She was quiet all the way home.
. . .
The phone rang almost as soon as we got home. My mother stared at it as if it were rattling like a snake poised to strike.
“Get that, will you, Robyn?” she said. Her voice sounded funny, as if she were holding her breath at the same time she was talking.
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