Catch You Later, Traitor

by Avi

  “I’m supposed to meet my father here. Professor Collison.”

  “And you are?”

  “His son, Pete.”

  Her face softened. “Oh, yes,” she said, as if she knew the name. “Do you know where to go?”

  I shook my head.

  “That hallway. Last room on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pete walked down a wide hall. Everything was white: walls, ceiling, and floor. The linoleum was so white it seemed illegal to walk on it. An old man was slowly pushing a wheelchair that held an even older man dressed in a white gown, his white-haired head tipped forward like a wilted white flower. Every few feet were white doors, some open. Inside the rooms were beds with white frames and white blankets. In one, an old man was propped up beneath the blankets, wearing white pajamas, his face blank. Outside another, two old ladies were whispering in tense voices to a young woman dressed in white, right down to her shoes. The only color came from a sign at the end of the hallway: in letters the color of blood, it read EXIT.

  I came to the last room on the right and peeked in. An old man lay on the bed, propped against a stack of white pillows. His face was thin and wrinkled, with hollow cheeks and closed eyes. Gray-white hair hung down on both sides of his face, like curtains parting. Or maybe they were closing.

  On the bed was a checkerboard, the pieces set up to play. Next to the bed, someone was sitting in a chair, his back to me. Dad. He had no idea I was in the doorway, standing behind him, watching.

  The more I stared at the man in the bed the more familiar he seemed. Then Dad began to get up.

  I jumped from the doorway, scooted to the door under the EXIT sign, and pushed my way through. I ran down a short flight of stairs, found another door. It opened into an alley. At the end of the alley was the regular street. I was there in seconds.

  Seeing no trace of Ewing’s car, I ran north for a couple of blocks, then headed east, and eventually got to West Fourth Street and took the A train to Brooklyn.

  As the subway roared through the dark tunnels, I couldn’t stop thinking about that old man my dad was visiting. I was sure I had seen his face somewhere. Gradually, an idea began to form, an impossible idea: I had seen Dad’s dad. My grandfather.

  30

  I went right to the kitchen. Ma was sitting there, reading her newspaper. She looked up and smiled. “Hello, love. How was your day?”

  “Fine. Bobby home? Dad?”

  “Bobby’s in his room. Dad should be soon.”

  She bent over her paper.

  I scooted into Dad’s office, pulled open the file cabinet, yanked out the “Frank” folder, and checked the picture of the man and two kids. Okay. One of the kids was definitely Dad. He had his arm around the other, younger kid. Had to be Dad’s brother, Frank. But who were Nelson Kasper or Blaine, the names written in pencil? And “2573.” What did that mean? Was it some code? Despite all my detective work, I had no idea.

  I checked the little picture, too, the one with Grandma Sally, my dad, his sisters, and the other boy, who I was now sure was Dad’s brother.

  There was also a man in both pictures. I stared at him. Before, I thought he was Uncle Chris. Now I was positive it was Dad’s dad, the guy in that nursing home. Where had he come from? Why was it all such a big secret?

  I fled to my room. Good thing too, because ten minutes later, Dad got home. Standing in the doorway to my room he said, “Hey, Pal, have a good day?”

  “Not bad,” I said, which was as true as Santa Claus. I wasn’t going to say anything about what I had discovered. I had too many unanswered questions.

  Dinner was normal, except far as I was concerned I couldn’t help feeling as if an extra person was at the table: Dad’s dad, invisible to everybody except me.

  After dinner, I retreated to my room and tried to do homework. Bobby came and stood behind me. “What’s digging you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something’s bothering you. You sat there at dinner like a dead street pigeon.”

  “When I went out this afternoon, you were watching me from the window.”

  “So what?”

  “Why were you watching?”

  “Why not?”

  After a moment I said, “Do you know what happened to Dad’s father?”

  Bobby stood there like a stopped clock.

  I said to him, “I just want to know what you know.”

  “How about you putting your question in a can and flushing it.”

  I said, “When I asked Grandma, she said Dad’s dad vanished. Dad said he died.”

  “Want some advice? Don’t stick your nose into other people’s business.”

  I took a wild shot. “Why? It going to keep you from going to the moon?”

  Bobby’s mouth hung open. “Shut up!” he shouted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” He stormed over to his side. I heard him drop onto his bed.

  I went and looked at him. He was lying with his back toward me. “Get out of here!” he cried.

  I headed for the kitchen. As I passed Dad’s office, he called out, “Hey, Pal.”

  All these secrets made it hard for me to look at him, as if he might see what I knew on my face.

  He said, “You love The Maltese Falcon. A few years ago, they made a terrific movie of it with Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade. It’s going to be shown at my college’s Film Society in a couple of weeks. I thought we could go.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “And there’s a little Italian restaurant right near the campus. We’ll have a good time. Just you and me.”

  I studied him. His suggestion was so unusual I had to think it was connected in some way with what I had discovered.

  He said, “Is something the matter?”

  Thinking fast, I said, “What about Bobby?”

  “You and I are the Sam Spade fans.” He smiled and turned away.

  “Dad,” I said to his back. “Your father died, right?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You sure?”

  He swiveled around. “Of course I’m sure. Why would you even ask? Pete, do you have any idea how suspicious you’ve become?”

  “Just curious,” I said, retreating while thinking I wouldn’t be so suspicious if he’d just tell me the truth.

  Next day after school, I went to Mr. Ordson’s. Soon as we settled in our chairs—Loki stretched out on the floor—Mr. Ordson said, “You’re upset.”

  “I went to my dad’s college and followed him.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Then the FBI followed me.”

  Hands clasped, the blind man touched his lips with his fingers. “Are you quite sure, Pete?”

  “I told you. They’re trying to find out Dad’s secret. Bobby told the FBI that Dad tells me his secrets. So they keep coming after me.”

  “Why would your brother do such a dreadful thing?”

  “So he could go to science camp.”

  Ordson sighed. “Pete,” he said, “isn’t this rather like the detective books you read, and those radio shows you listen to?”

  “They teach me a lot. That’s how I’ve discovered things. And guess what? I discovered Dad’s secret.”

  “Did you?”

  “Dad’s been going to a place called the Duffy Nursing Home. His secret is—he’s been going to see his father.”

  “His father!” said Mr. Ordson. “My heavens! Didn’t you tell me he died?”

  “That’s what Dad told me. But I saw him. He’s alive.”

  Ordson sat for a moment in his silent way. Then he said, “Are you . . . positive?”

  “Remember what I told you? I saw his picture in Dad’s files. And in my Aunt Betty’s house. It’s him.”

  “Weren’t those photographs taken a long time ago? And didn’t you think they were of someone else? Could this just be your imagination taking over?”

  “Mr. Ordson, I saw my grandfather in that nursing place. I know it.”

  “Where has
he been all these years?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Did you ask your father?”

  “He won’t tell me. Keeps saying his father died. He didn’t.”

  “But . . . why would he lie about such a thing?”

  “Don’t know,” I admitted, wishing we could get to the papers.

  “Pete,” he said, “how did the FBI know you would be at the college so they might follow you?”

  “My brother.”

  “Did you tell Bobby you were going to follow your father?”

  “He watched me when I left the house.”

  “Did you inform him as to where you were going?”

  “I don’t know how he knew!” I cried. “I just know he did.”

  When Ordson became quiet, it was obvious to me that he didn’t like what I was saying. “I’m right,” I said. “I am.”

  “Very well. Your dad’s father is in a nursing home. Do we really believe that’s his big secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why should it be secret?”

  “I don’t know!” I yelled, not understanding why Mr. Ordson couldn’t get how important my discovery was.

  “Pete,” said Mr. Ordson, “we live in a time of great mistrust. This is not always a bad thing. People should question things. However, in my experience, too much suspicion undermines reason.”

  I shook my head, only to remember he couldn’t see me.

  “There’s a big difference,” he went on, “between suspicion and paranoia.”

  “What’s . . . paranoia?”

  “An unreasonable belief that you are being persecuted. For example,” Mr. Ordson went on, “I’m willing to guess you’ve even considered me to be the informer. After all, you told me you were going to follow your father. Perhaps I told the FBI.”

  Startled, I stared at him. His blank eyes showed nothing. Neither did his expression. It was as if he had his mask on again.

  “Have you considered that?” he pushed.

  “No,” I said. But his question made me realize how much I’d shared with him. Trusted him. How he’d become my only friend. And he was the only one I had told I was going to follow my dad. Maybe he did tell the FBI.

  He said, “I hope you get my point.”

  Silence settled around us. Loki looked around, puzzled.

  Mr. Ordson must have sensed what I was thinking, because he said, “Now, Pete, you don’t really have qualms about me, do you?”

  My head was exploding with how stupid I’d been to talk to him. All of a sudden, I didn’t want to be there.

  Mr. Ordson cleared his throat. “Let’s get to the papers.”

  I was on edge the whole time I read. I kept stealing looks at Mr. Ordson, wishing I could figure out what he was thinking. I had told him everything. He knew it all. I wanted to run away.

  When we were finished reading, I got to the front door fast. As Mr. Ordson handed me his silver dollar, he said, “Forgive me, Pete. I should not have said that about paranoia. That wasn’t fair. Please don’t give way to excessive distrust. I fear it is seriously clouding your judgment.”

  “Mr. Ordson . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t work for you anymore.”

  “My goodness, Pete, you mustn’t—”

  “Got to go,” I said, and hurried down the hall.

  “Pete,” he called after me. “I’ll expect you next week. Regular time.”

  I jumped on the elevator and slapped the buttons with the flat of my hand. The doors thumped shut. The elevator started down, creaking the whole way. My thoughts were tumbling. I should have listened to Dad. Not talked to anyone. No one. If Ordson was an informer, what was I going to do? I’d told him so much.

  The moment the elevator jolted to a stop, I stepped out. Behind me, the doors clunked closed. I blinked. It was pitch-black. It was as if I had walked into a trap.

  31

  It took a few seconds for me to understand what had happened: I’d hit the wrong button and landed in the basement.

  Fumbling behind me, I located the elevator doorframe. But no call buttons. All I could find was a keyhole. I had to think that one out. Security. If someone stole into the basement area, he couldn’t get up into the apartments without a key. To get out, I’d have to search through the dark until I found stairs—there must be stairs somewhere—that would lead to the street.

  I stood in place. The cold, clammy basement air irritated my throat. Aside from my rapid breathing, the only noise I heard was the tick-tick, tick-tick of a leak, a tinny tattoo touching down as if miles away. All I saw was darkness.

  After a few moments, I took some small steps, only to bang into a wall. Frustrated, I started walking in a different direction, but keeping my hands before me.

  As I crept forward, I began to see walls. Shadows of a different blackness. But that I could see anything told me light was coming from someplace. I kept going. The light grew, slightly.

  I began to see closed doors. I could see labels on them: “Storage 1,” “Storage 2.” A double set of doors was marked “Main Furnace.”

  Inching forward, I saw a bend in the walls with some light beyond. I eased around the corner where there was more light. Off to the side was a partly open door. A sign on it read “Telephone Junction Room.”

  A slice of bright light poked out through the crack between the door and its frame. I was about to go on when I heard the sounds of someone moving around inside the room. Next came the whirr of an electric motor—like a drill.

  In a flash, I remembered that detective magazine story “Tapped Out”: how the FBI tapped apartment phones from telephone junction boxes—in basements. Then that Mario told Ewing—I had been sure it was Ewing—I worked in apartment 4F.

  I wanted to get out of there, but I needed to know what was happening in that room. I waited. In moments, a voice came from inside the junction room: “Yeah, just finished. Got it all plugged in. You’ll be able to hear everything. I’m leaving now.”

  That was enough for me. I bolted for that outer door, yanked it open, and dashed out of the building into an alley. The sun was blazing and a green van with the words “Bell Telephone Company” on its side was parked there.

  I ran to the main street and kept going. When I got near my own building, on Hicks Street I sat down on the stoop where I used to play stoopball with Kat. I was panting, my heart was galloping, and my thoughts were going just as fast.

  As far as I was concerned, I’d heard the sound of the FBI bugging Mr. Ordson’s apartment.

  On the pavement right in front of me, an army of ants was pouring out of a crack in the sidewalk. There could be thousands of them below, all hidden. Undercover ants.

  In the building across the way, someone pulled down a window shade. Was that person hiding something?

  Across the street, a new gray Chevy coupe was parked. It had a hood ornament, a rocket, tilted up, as if ready to take off. Maybe Bobby was right: better to escape to the moon. What was that popular Les Paul and Mary Ford song? “How High the Moon.” Would the FBI follow me there?

  Was Mr. Ordson the informer? Or was he being bugged? Didn’t matter. I’d been stupid to talk to him. I wouldn’t go back. Couldn’t.

  I thought of what Mr. Ordson said: that I didn’t trust anyone or anything. What was that word he used? Paranoia.

  I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned, Bobby was still the informer.

  I tried to think things through. Dad became a Communist about the time he was with Al Depaco. But Depaco told me he knew nothing about that. Was that the truth?

  I jumped up and went to the phone booth at our corner. I had checked Depaco’s phone number so many times I remembered it. Snagging a dime from my pocket, I stepped into the glass-walled booth, dumped my schoolbooks on the ground, dropped the dime into the slot. The dial tone hummed. I spun out TR-5-3218 and waited. The phone rang.

  “Hello.” Depaco’s gravelly voice.

  “Hi, Mr. Depaco. This is P
ete. Pete Collison. I visited. Remember? Dennis Collison’s son.”

  “Yeah,” Depaco barked, with instant anger. “Just so you know, after you left my house the FBI came by. They questioned me.”

  “They did?”

  “You bet they did.”

  “About . . . what?”

  “You. Wanted to know what you were asking me about. Hey, kid, do me a favor. You and your old man. Keep away. I don’t want no trouble.” He hung up.

  I remembered the guy on the subway who I saw both coming and going. The FBI had followed me to Depaco’s house! I wasn’t full of paranoia.

  Okay: Depaco wasn’t the informer.

  A little calmer, I was willing to admit that Mr. Ordson wasn’t the informer, either. Still, I was sure the FBI was bugging his apartment. The FBI had followed me when I followed Dad. They had talked to Depaco, which meant they must have followed me to his house.

  The FBI wanted to talk to me. Ewing kept saying that. Fine. I’d talk to them. Next time they came after me, I’d go after them. They probably wouldn’t want anyone to know Bobby was an informer. Fine. I’d make a deal: if the FBI would leave Dad and me alone, I wouldn’t tell anyone about Bobby. Of course, I wouldn’t tell them about Dad’s dad.

  Be patient, I told myself. They’re going to come after me again. It’ll be the big showdown. Fine.

  32

  On Friday, June 1, I got a coded letter from Kat. When I worked it out, it read:

  dear traitor school almost over but not coming home my parents getting a divorce yuck am going with my mother to my aunts house for a while then summer camp then back to this school not so bad here tried to start a punch ball team but they said not lady like ha ha so no go miss you whats up dodgers k

  I wrote back, in code.

  dear angel sorry about your parents things here very complicated dont want to put in letter too many spies and i got paranoya but promise to tell you all no one to talk to miss you 16 tons plus 3 ounces giants p

  Dodgers were in first place. Giants, third.

  During the next few days, I kept waiting for the FBI to show up. They didn’t. But then I had a brilliant idea. Mr. Ewing had invited me to come visit him. Okay, I’d go to him.