Book One of the Travelers

by D. J. MacHale

  “How’s the Wright family?” Jed asked.

  “Cousin Mary went to sit with them,” Gunny said. “And the whole neighborhood believes you’re innocent. Things got kind of crazy after the cops hauled you away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People were fired up—wanted to go smash up the Paradise. It nearly turned into a riot.”

  Jed let out a low whistle. “Not good.”

  “I managed to quiet things down before they really got out of hand,” Gunny said.

  “Did you, now?” Jed looked at Gunny thoughtfully. “I’ve always known you were a born leader.”

  Gunny laughed. “Maybe you knew. It was news to me today!”

  Jed twisted his ring. He’d worn that ring for as long as Gunny could remember.

  “Listen, there’s something I need you to do,” Jed said.

  “Anything,” Gunny replied.

  “Keep an eye on Junior Wright. Mrs. Wright is going to have her hands full. Jeffrey watched over them during the day while she was at work. Now there’s no one to do that. Delia is a sweet kid with lots of activities that keep her out of trouble. But Junior…”

  “I don’t know how to take care of a teenage boy!” Gunny protested. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Learn quickly,” Jed said.

  FOUR

  Gunny raised his eyebrow. “Not funny.”

  “You’re right. It’s not,” Jed said. “This is important. For Junior. And for you.”

  “I have nothing to offer a kid. And seriously, Jed,” Gunny added, “what can a kid do for me—other than annoy me?”

  “Promise me,” Jed said.

  “But—”

  Jed reached through the bars and placed his hands on Gunny’s shoulders. “This matters more to me than getting the bail or even helping to free me. Just trust me. It’s important that you watch over him.”

  Gunny stared at his old friend. In the past Jed had pushed Gunny toward trying things he didn’t really want to do. Somehow it always turned out right—or at least, not too badly wrong. Jed’s grave expression made it very clear that he was sincere, and that this was a very big deal.

  “I still don’t see why you think this is something that I’d be good for, but all right. I promise.”

  “You underestimate yourself,” Jed said. Then he grinned. “I won’t say you’ll never regret it,” he joked. “But I will say it will give you something you’ll need.”

  “If you say so,” Gunny said skeptically. “The faster I get you out on bail, the quicker you can take on Junior. So I’m going to get right on it.”

  Gunny left the jail, not sure what his next move should be. Home, he decided. He’d be able to think better there. Make some plans.

  He stepped off the curb. The squeal of tires on pavement made him look up. A shiny black car was taking the turn at breakneck speed, hugging the street so tight, one wheel jumped the pavement.

  Gunny flung himself forward, trying to make it as far across the street as possible. He stumbled, but didn’t go down. He whirled around to see the car barreling toward him. The car sped by him, missing him by mere inches.

  But it didn’t move so fast that he couldn’t see the driver.

  Junior Wright.

  Gunny gaped after the speeding car. What is that fool child doing out joyriding in a fancy car like that? And whose car was the kid driving? Could Junior have stolen it? Another thought hit Gunny, hard—did Junior know about his dad?

  Gunny dashed after the car like a sprinter a third his age.

  Well, look at that, Gunny thought as the black car screeched to a sudden stop at the red light. Nice to see Junior didn’t break that particular traffic law!

  Before the light could change, Gunny yanked open the car door.

  Junior’s head whipped around to face Gunny. “What the—” he blurted out.

  Gunny slammed the door shut.

  “You can’t just jump into my car!” Junior shouted.

  “I just did. You can’t run me over in the street. And what do you mean, your car?”

  Horns blared behind them as the light changed, and Junior hit the gas.

  “I got the car from Ambrose Jackson.”

  “Why would Ambrose give you a car?” Gunny clutched the car handle so he wouldn’t slip around on the seat. Junior had slowed down, but he wove in and out of traffic like a football player avoiding being tackled.

  “He didn’t give it to me,” Junior said as if Gunny were an idiot missing the obvious. “He loaned it to me so I could do errands for him.”

  “What kind of errands?”

  “Easy ones. I just have to pick up envelopes from people around town.”

  Gunny’s eyes stayed on the road, trying to will the cars to part for them. “Envelopes?” Gunny repeated.

  “Ambrose is great, man,” Junior continued. “He even introduced me to the owner of Duke’s Gym so I can work on my boxing.”

  Gunny’s eyebrow shot up. “Boxing? I never heard anything about you training as a boxer.”

  Junior snorted. “That’s because everyone is set against it. My father practically outlawed even talking about it in our house. But not Ambrose. He believes in me.” His dark expression grew darker. “More than my own father. All my dad does is give me grief.”

  Gunny felt his heart sink. Right. His dad.

  Gunny slid his arm across the seat behind Junior. “Listen, Junior, something serious has happened. Park the car and come with me.”

  That got Junior’s attention. “What happened?” he demanded.

  Before Gunny could answer, shots rang out.

  Gunny swiveled in his seat just in time to see the bullets take out their taillights.

  Someone was shooting at them!

  FIVE

  Junior yelped and flung his hands up to cover his head. The car swerved toward the oncoming traffic.

  “Junior!” Gunny reached over the boy to grab the wheel. “Keep shifting!” he shouted, since Junior had access to the clutch and manual gear shift.

  A siren wailed. Gunny desperately hoped it was the police.

  Ping! A bullet hit the rearview mirror, shearing it off.

  “They’re going to kill us!” Junior wailed.

  Gunny’s heart leaped into his throat, plummeted to his stomach and came back up again. The sirens weren’t from police cars—they announced the fire engine heading straight toward them.

  He yanked the wheel hard, his elbow connecting with some part of Junior. The car swerved sharply and squeaked out of the fire engine’s way just in time.

  All around them cars honked and drivers shouted and cursed at them. Gunny ignored it all, concentrating on keeping the car in one lane and ahead of the bullets. Sweat drenched his shirt and dripped into his eyes, but he stayed focused. The world narrowed to the path he was making through traffic.

  Shards of glass rained down on them, and Junior let out another yelp. The back window had been shattered by a bullet. The tires screeched as Junior skidded the car to a stop at the mouth of an alleyway.

  “Come on,” Gunny said, flinging open his door. He practically fell onto the pavement.

  He glanced back and saw the boy was too terrified to move. Gunny reached back into the car and dragged Junior out by his jacket.

  “On your feet now!” Gunny ordered.

  The steel in Gunny’s voice must have jump-started Junior’s brain. The boy’s feet hit the sidewalk, and together they tore into the alley.

  Dead end.

  “This way,” Junior said. Gunny watched the boy jump up to grab the steel rungs of the ladder on the fire escape, pulling the ladder down toward the ground. He clambered up, then turned and reached out his hand to Gunny.

  “I can do it,” Gunny snarled. He jumped up and gripped the cold metal. With a little huff, he hoisted himself the rest of the way up onto the fire escape. Then he followed Junior up to the roof.

  In the street below, Gunny heard the unmistakable sound of bullets. “Down!” G
unny hissed. He pressed hard on Junior’s shoulders, buckling the boy’s knees. Gunny lay flat and peered over the edge of the roof; Junior did the same.

  A nondescript black car sped by, and a volley of shots hit the car Junior had just been driving. Whoosh! The engine caught fire.

  Gunny watched the flames, catching his breath. There were no more shots.

  Junior rolled over and lay on his back, his body shuddering as he tried to calm his breathing. “Why would anyone want to kill me?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Gunny looked at the frightened boy. “You tell me.”

  Junior raised his eyes to Gunny’s face. “I—I don’t know.”

  Gunny frowned. Was Junior a target for some reason? Gunny shook off the thought as soon as he had it. It just didn’t make enough sense. “Who knew you were driving Ambrose’s car?” he asked.

  Slowly Junior sat up. “Just Ambrose. And maybe some of the construction crew. We were at his site, and there was some problem. Ambrose couldn’t get away, so he asked me to pick up the envelopes.”

  “The envelopes,” Gunny said, putting it together. “Do you know what’s inside them?”

  Junior shrugged. “I never looked.”

  “Well, I think those people shooting at us resent giving Ambrose those little envelopes. You should stay away from him.”

  Junior quickly switched from bewildered and frightened to belligerent and defiant. “You sound just like my father.”

  Gunny flinched as he remembered the news he still had to deliver.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Gunny said, offering Junior a hand up. “We need to go see your mother.”

  Junior crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet. “That’s right. You said something happened. And I’m not moving from this spot until you tell me what.”

  Gunny studied the boy. This was big. This wasn’t a scolding about joyriding or staying out too late.

  “Come on,” Gunny said. “We have to go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you, old man, until you tell me why.”

  Junior’s dark brown eyes never left Gunny’s face. It was a stare-down, and Gunny realized he was going to blink first.

  “It—it’s your father.”

  Junior scowled. “He told you to come and get me, is that it? Well you tell him—”

  “No,” Gunny interrupted. “Someone shot him. He’s dead.”

  Gunny watched Junior’s face transform as the boy slowly comprehended the significance of what Gunny had just told him. His eyes widened and suddenly flicked to the ground. Junior swallowed a number of times, as if there were something trapped in his throat. His head shook, as if his brain were fighting off the knowledge that his father had been killed.

  Gunny was at a loss for words. He had known Junior and his family all of the boy’s life, but he had never been part of it. How do you comfort someone who is practically a stranger? And what did boys need to hear in moments like this anyway?

  Jed was wrong, Gunny thought. I am not up to this task.

  “I—I’m sorry, Junior,” Gunny said. “Truly.”

  Junior took a deep breath and looked up at Gunny again.

  “My mom. Delia. Are they okay?” he asked.

  “They weren’t harmed,” Gunny assured him.

  “I need to see them,” Junior said, jogging toward the fire escape.

  As upset by the news as Junior obviously was, Gunny noticed the boy’s first thoughts were of the rest of his family. Gunny hadn’t expected that.

  Gunny and Junior walked through the door of the Wright apartment, just two floors below Jed’s. Cousin Mary sat beside Delia, and three women Gunny recognized from the neighborhood were pouring coffee and setting out sandwiches.

  A short, stout police officer stood by Mrs. Wright, scribbling notes in a notepad. “Tell me,” the officer was saying, “can you think of anyone who might want to harm your husband?”

  “No, no one.” Mrs. Wright looked composed, but her dark skin was ashen, and she spoke faintly, as if she were far away. “Everyone loved Jeffrey.”

  Her eyes wandered the room, looking for confirmation. “Junior!”

  Junior rushed over to his mother and they embraced. “Your father—he—”

  “I know, Mama, I know,” Junior told her.

  “Thank you for bringing him home,” Mrs. Wright said to Gunny over Jed’s shoulder.

  Junior released his mother and turned to the officer. “Do you have any suspects?” he asked, sounding very adult.

  “Jed Sweeney was found with the gun,” the policeman said. “He’s in custody.”

  Junior’s face went nearly purple with rage. “I’ll kill him!”

  “Now, son, calm down,” the officer said mildly.

  “I knew Jumpin’ Jed would never let Daddy leave the band!” Junior shouted.

  Uh-oh, Gunny thought. Junior was providing just the kind of motive the police were looking for. It confirmed the theory they already had, and they could simply call the case closed.

  “Your father hadn’t decided yet,” Mrs. Wright argued. “And even if he had, Jed Sweeney certainly wouldn’t have shot him over it. Now hush.”

  Junior’s jaw set, but he stopped talking. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, glaring.

  “Mama—,” Delia began.

  “Officer, clubs have been broken up before by rival gangster owners,” Gunny said, interrupting Delia, trying to get things back on track. “Shouldn’t you be looking at them?”

  The policeman narrowed his eyes at Gunny. “And you are?…”

  “Vincent Van Dyke, but everyone calls me ‘Gunny.’”

  “So, Mr. Van Dyke, what’s your interest here?”

  “My interest is the truth. And I know Jed Sweeney is innocent.”

  “Oh, you know that, do you?” The policeman sneered. “Well, without Halliday or any other eyewitness, there’s only so much we can do.”

  “Marvin still hasn’t turned up?” Gunny asked.

  “Nope. But the gun we found on your pal had its entire round shot. Not all the bullets were in Mr. Wright. They could be in Mr. Halliday.”

  “Or Marvin could be in hiding,” Gunny suggested. The last thing Jed needed was to be suspected of killing Marvin, too. “He could be afraid to come forward.”

  Delia put down her sandwich. “Mama—”

  “Not now, honey,” Mrs. Wright said. “The grownups need to talk.”

  Delia rolled her eyes and left the room.

  “We’ll let you know if we find out anything,” the officer said. He flipped his notepad shut. “Sorry for your loss, ma’am.” He gave a little nod, then left the room.

  Junior exploded. “How can you defend Jed Sweeney?” he shouted at Gunny. “He did this, and if you’re on his side, then you’re not on ours.”

  He turned and stormed into the other room, pulling the door behind him so hard the pictures on the living-room wall rattled.

  Mrs. Wright turned a worried face to Gunny. “I don’t believe Jed had anything to do with this. He’s a victim too. Sitting in that jail.”

  “I’m glad to hear you believe in his innocence,” Gunny said. “He’s going to need all the supporters he can get. I think we’re going to have quite a time convincing the police.”

  Gunny rubbed his face wearily. Junior wasn’t going to make it any easier.

  SIX

  The next morning Gunny headed for the subway stop. He had just left the Wrights’ apartment after Jeffrey’s funeral. Now he was going to check in on Jed.

  There wasn’t any action at Ambrose Jackson’s site this time. But Ambrose was there, having what looked like a heated discussion with a construction worker—probably the site foreman. As Gunny drew closer, the argument grew louder.

  “Not until my men get paid,” the foreman was saying. He crossed his burly arms over his barrel chest.

  “Don’t fret, my man,” Ambrose said with a broad smile. “You’ll get your money. You know I’m good for it.”

/>   “I know food doesn’t appear on my table unless I pay cash for it,” the foreman said. “The grocer doesn’t accept promises. And neither do I.”

  So Ambrose is having money problems, Gunny noted.

  Ambrose’s eyes narrowed and a steely glint appeared in them. He was still smiling, but the hard set of his jaw made it clear to Gunny that Ambrose was fighting back a boiling anger.

  “I’ll have all the money you need very soon,” Ambrose assured the construction worker, his voice now clipped, rather than the smooth, velvety tones he usually used. “I’ve got a sure thing about to come in. It’s going to hit, I know it.”

  The foreman looked skeptical. “The only sure thing I know is cash in my hand. So when you’ve got that, that’s when we’ll start working again.” He turned and walked away.

  Ambrose glared after him. Gunny suspected Ambrose was a man used to getting his way.

  Something about the conversation set Gunny thinking. “Sure thing,” “going to hit”—Gunny had heard gamblers use those phrases. Gunny had learned from hard experience that gambling and gunplay too often went hand in hand. If Ambrose sent Junior to pick up money from gamblers, that could explain why the car Junior was driving had been shot up.

  “You there,” Gunny called after Ambrose.

  Ambrose turned to face Gunny. A wary smile slowly appeared. “You’re Jumpin’ Jed’s pal,” he said with a slow nod.

  “I’m also a friend of the Wright family,” Gunny said. “So I don’t like it if any of them are put into a dangerous situation.”

  Ambrose’s smile broadened. “Of course not. I feel the same way.”

  “Those envelopes you sent Junior to collect. Were they to pay off gambling debts?” Gunny asked.

  “Is this guy bothering you, Mr. Jackson?”

  Gunny startled. He hadn’t heard the man who had just materialized behind him. The man strolled past Gunny and stood next to Ambrose.

  “All good here,” Ambrose said. “Though this gentleman should keep his nose out of other people’s business.”

  Another man stepped up beside Ambrose. Where did they come from? Gunny realized they must have been hovering in the background and only drew attention to themselves when they thought Ambrose was in danger. Bodyguards—invisible until called into action. The bulges under their jackets were quite visible to Gunny now, though.