Shelter
Page 21
She offered up a small smile and shook her head. “You can’t be for real.”
“Promise me or I walk you home.”
“Fine,” she said with a sigh, “I promise, I promise.”
Myron’s backyard was against the neighbors.’ Ema headed out that way. I watched her walk away, her back hunched a little, and I wondered how it was, when I swore I wouldn’t connect with anyone, that she already meant so much to me. I watched until she vanished from sight, then I started back to the house. The basketball was lying on the ground outside. I picked it up and spun it on my finger. I looked at the hoop, but no, it was too late. I might wake up the neighbors. I spun the ball again and headed for the back door when something made me stop.
I pushed my back against the wall of the house so I could stay out of sight. My heart started thumping hard in my chest. I put down the ball and slowly slid toward the right, near the garage. I kept low and peered around the corner toward the street in front of Myron’s house. And there, parked on the corner maybe two hundred yards away from the house, was a black car with tinted windows.
It looked like the same car I’d seen today at basketball—the same car I’d seen at Bat Lady’s house.
I debated my next move. I remembered Mr. Waters telling me to call him if I saw the bald guy again, but come on, it was two in the morning. His cell phone was probably off. And if not, did I really want to wake him and his whole family and—what?—wait for him to maybe drive over? The car would probably be gone by then.
No, this was on me.
I wasn’t particularly afraid—or maybe curiosity just won out over fear. Hard to say. When I was ten, my family spent a year in the Amazon rain forest in Brazil. The local chieftain was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, using an offshoot of what was more popularly known as Brazilian jujitsu. I’ve practiced martial arts ever since, in those obscure corners of the globe, mostly as a way to keep in shape for basketball. To date, I had only used these skills once. They had worked—maybe a little too well.
Whatever, it gave me confidence, even if it might be false confidence. I sprinted behind the Gorets’ house next door. My goal was to move from house to house and sneak up on the car from behind. Three houses to go. No reason to stall. I peeked out from behind the Gorets’ azaleas and dashed to the Greenhalls. They owned a farm up north and were never home.
A minute later I was hiding behind a bush maybe ten yards away from the black car with the tinted windows. Now that I was this close, I could make out the license plate. A30432. I took out my cell phone and checked the plate number Ema had texted to me. The number was the same.
No doubt now—it was the same black car.
I glanced out from the bush. The car’s engine was off. There were no signs of movement or life. The black car could be just parked and empty.
So now what do I do?
Do I just approach and start slamming my palms on the window, demanding answers? That seemed somewhat logical. It also seemed kind of stupid. Do I sit here and wait? For how long? And what if the car drives off? Then what?
I was still hunched behind the bush, trying to decide what to do, when the decision was made for me. The front passenger door opened and the bald guy stepped out. He still wore the dark suit, and despite the hour, he even had the sunglasses on.
For a moment the man stood perfectly still, his back to the bush. Then he slowly turned his head and said, “Mickey.”
Gulp.
I had no idea how he had seen me, but it didn’t matter now. I stood up. He stared at me from behind those sunglasses, and in spite of the heat, I swear I felt a chill.
“You have questions,” the bald man said to me. He spoke with one of those exaggerated British accents that almost sound phony. Like he’d gone to some fancy prep school and wanted to make sure you knew it. “But you’re not yet ready for the answers.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, still with that accent, “just what it sounds like.”
I frowned. “It sounds like something you’d read on a bad fortune cookie.”
There was the hint of a smile on the bald man’s face. “Don’t tell anyone about us.”
“Like who?”
“Like anyone. Like your uncle.”
“Myron? What would I tell him anyway? I don’t know anything. Who exactly are you? Or, as you put it, us?”
“You’ll know,” he said, “when the time is right.”
“And when will that be?”
The man slid back into the car. He never seemed to hurry, but every moment was almost supernaturally fast and fluid.
“Wait!” I shouted.
I moved quickly, trying to reach the car door before it closed. “What were you doing in that house? Who are you?”
But it was too late. He slammed the door shut. The car started up. Now, as I semi-planned earlier, I slapped the tinted windows with my palm. “Stop!”
The car started to pull out. Without thought I jumped on the hood. Like you see in the movies. But here is what you don’t see in the movies: there is really no place to grab on to. I went for that area near the windshield but my fingers couldn’t get a grip. The car moved forward, stopped short, and I went flying.
I managed somehow to land on my feet, stumble, and stay upright. I stood now in front of the car, daring them to run me down. Even the front windshield was tinted, but I stared through it toward the passenger seat, trying to imagine I was eye to eye with the bald man. For a few moments, nothing happened. I stayed in front of the car.
“Who are you?” I asked again. “What do you want with me?”
I heard the passenger window slide down. I was tempted to go to it, but that might be a sucker move. Maybe the man just wanted me to move out of the way so he could drive off.
“Bat Lady said my father is still alive,” I shouted.
And, to my surprise, I got a reply. “She shouldn’t have said that.”
My heart stopped. “Is he?”
There was a long silence.
“Is my father still alive?” I demanded.
I put my hands on the hood, my fingers digging into the metal almost as though I was going to lift the car and shake the answer out of it.
“We’ll talk,” the man said.
“Don’t give me that—”
And then, without warning, the car flew into reverse. I fell forward onto the street, scraping my hands on the pavement. When I looked up, the car spun around and disappeared around the bend.
“Promise me or I walk you home.”
“Fine,” she said with a sigh, “I promise, I promise.”
Myron’s backyard was against the neighbors.’ Ema headed out that way. I watched her walk away, her back hunched a little, and I wondered how it was, when I swore I wouldn’t connect with anyone, that she already meant so much to me. I watched until she vanished from sight, then I started back to the house. The basketball was lying on the ground outside. I picked it up and spun it on my finger. I looked at the hoop, but no, it was too late. I might wake up the neighbors. I spun the ball again and headed for the back door when something made me stop.
I pushed my back against the wall of the house so I could stay out of sight. My heart started thumping hard in my chest. I put down the ball and slowly slid toward the right, near the garage. I kept low and peered around the corner toward the street in front of Myron’s house. And there, parked on the corner maybe two hundred yards away from the house, was a black car with tinted windows.
It looked like the same car I’d seen today at basketball—the same car I’d seen at Bat Lady’s house.
I debated my next move. I remembered Mr. Waters telling me to call him if I saw the bald guy again, but come on, it was two in the morning. His cell phone was probably off. And if not, did I really want to wake him and his whole family and—what?—wait for him to maybe drive over? The car would probably be gone by then.
No, this was on me.
I wasn’t particularly afraid—or maybe curiosity just won out over fear. Hard to say. When I was ten, my family spent a year in the Amazon rain forest in Brazil. The local chieftain was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, using an offshoot of what was more popularly known as Brazilian jujitsu. I’ve practiced martial arts ever since, in those obscure corners of the globe, mostly as a way to keep in shape for basketball. To date, I had only used these skills once. They had worked—maybe a little too well.
Whatever, it gave me confidence, even if it might be false confidence. I sprinted behind the Gorets’ house next door. My goal was to move from house to house and sneak up on the car from behind. Three houses to go. No reason to stall. I peeked out from behind the Gorets’ azaleas and dashed to the Greenhalls. They owned a farm up north and were never home.
A minute later I was hiding behind a bush maybe ten yards away from the black car with the tinted windows. Now that I was this close, I could make out the license plate. A30432. I took out my cell phone and checked the plate number Ema had texted to me. The number was the same.
No doubt now—it was the same black car.
I glanced out from the bush. The car’s engine was off. There were no signs of movement or life. The black car could be just parked and empty.
So now what do I do?
Do I just approach and start slamming my palms on the window, demanding answers? That seemed somewhat logical. It also seemed kind of stupid. Do I sit here and wait? For how long? And what if the car drives off? Then what?
I was still hunched behind the bush, trying to decide what to do, when the decision was made for me. The front passenger door opened and the bald guy stepped out. He still wore the dark suit, and despite the hour, he even had the sunglasses on.
For a moment the man stood perfectly still, his back to the bush. Then he slowly turned his head and said, “Mickey.”
Gulp.
I had no idea how he had seen me, but it didn’t matter now. I stood up. He stared at me from behind those sunglasses, and in spite of the heat, I swear I felt a chill.
“You have questions,” the bald man said to me. He spoke with one of those exaggerated British accents that almost sound phony. Like he’d gone to some fancy prep school and wanted to make sure you knew it. “But you’re not yet ready for the answers.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, still with that accent, “just what it sounds like.”
I frowned. “It sounds like something you’d read on a bad fortune cookie.”
There was the hint of a smile on the bald man’s face. “Don’t tell anyone about us.”
“Like who?”
“Like anyone. Like your uncle.”
“Myron? What would I tell him anyway? I don’t know anything. Who exactly are you? Or, as you put it, us?”
“You’ll know,” he said, “when the time is right.”
“And when will that be?”
The man slid back into the car. He never seemed to hurry, but every moment was almost supernaturally fast and fluid.
“Wait!” I shouted.
I moved quickly, trying to reach the car door before it closed. “What were you doing in that house? Who are you?”
But it was too late. He slammed the door shut. The car started up. Now, as I semi-planned earlier, I slapped the tinted windows with my palm. “Stop!”
The car started to pull out. Without thought I jumped on the hood. Like you see in the movies. But here is what you don’t see in the movies: there is really no place to grab on to. I went for that area near the windshield but my fingers couldn’t get a grip. The car moved forward, stopped short, and I went flying.
I managed somehow to land on my feet, stumble, and stay upright. I stood now in front of the car, daring them to run me down. Even the front windshield was tinted, but I stared through it toward the passenger seat, trying to imagine I was eye to eye with the bald man. For a few moments, nothing happened. I stayed in front of the car.
“Who are you?” I asked again. “What do you want with me?”
I heard the passenger window slide down. I was tempted to go to it, but that might be a sucker move. Maybe the man just wanted me to move out of the way so he could drive off.
“Bat Lady said my father is still alive,” I shouted.
And, to my surprise, I got a reply. “She shouldn’t have said that.”
My heart stopped. “Is he?”
There was a long silence.
“Is my father still alive?” I demanded.
I put my hands on the hood, my fingers digging into the metal almost as though I was going to lift the car and shake the answer out of it.
“We’ll talk,” the man said.
“Don’t give me that—”
And then, without warning, the car flew into reverse. I fell forward onto the street, scraping my hands on the pavement. When I looked up, the car spun around and disappeared around the bend.
