Seconds Away Page 14

  "Okay, so let's follow that. Rachel's mom says the dad is a horrible man who locked her up because she knew bad stuff about him or whatever. Right?"

  "I guess."

  Ema kept pacing. "Then Rachel wants to give her mother the benefit of the doubt. So what would she naturally do?"

  "Look into her mother's accusation," I said.

  "How?"

  "By looking into her father . . ."

  My voice faded. And that was when I saw it.

  Both Ema and Spoon spotted the look on my face. "What?"

  I tried to sort through the thoughts even as I spoke. "Rachel had the Abeona butterfly on her hospital door," I said.

  "So?"

  "So she was working with them somehow."

  "Okay," Ema said. "We sort of knew that. What's the big deal?"

  "When that guy with the shaved head came by the morning after Rachel was shot, the first thing he asked me was so weird."

  "What was it?"

  "He said that he knew that Rachel and I had gotten close . . ."

  Ema squirmed a little when I said that.

  "But right away, he started asking if Rachel had given me anything."

  "Like what?" Spoon said.

  "That's what I asked. Like what. He said like a gift or package. I mean, here Rachel has just been shot. Her mother is dead. I've just finished talking to the police--and the first thing Shaved Head asks about is if Rachel gave me a gift or package? Don't you think that's weird?"

  We all agreed that it was.

  "So what's your theory?" Ema asked.

  "Suppose Rachel found something," I said. "I don't know what. Something that proves her mother was telling the truth. Suppose she found something bad about her father and then she wrapped it up in a package or something--and maybe she was supposed to pass it on to the Abeona Shelter."

  "But she ends up shot before she can," Ema added.

  "And her mother, the woman who first made the accusation, ends up dead," Spoon finished for us.

  Silence.

  "We may be reaching," Ema said. "On one level, this all makes sense. On another, it doesn't. Rachel is still alive. Even if she doesn't still have this gift or package, I mean, she has to know what it was."

  "Which may mean she's still in danger," Spoon added.

  I thought about it. "We are missing something," I said.

  "What?"

  "I don't know. But something. Her father wouldn't shoot her. I mean, come on. He just wouldn't, even to protect himself."

  We mulled that over for a few seconds.

  "Maybe it was an accident," Ema said.

  "How?"

  "Maybe he shot at the mother and accidentally hit Rachel."

  That made more sense, I guess, but it still didn't feel right. We were missing something. I just couldn't put my finger on what. We talked some more as the skies started to darken. At some point, I realized that tryouts would be coming to an end and all the varsity guys would be walking out the door. I didn't want to be here for that. I suggested that we break this up for the night.

  Spoon glanced at his watch. "My dad will be done with work in another half an hour. I think I'll hang with him and catch a ride."

  Ema and I walked alone down Kasselton Avenue. Behind us, the gym's heavy doors slammed open as the varsity players started pouring out. They were laughing and smiling and had wet hair from showering and they walked a little stooped, happily tired from the workout. Seeing them made the pit in my stomach grow tenfold.

  Ema said, "Come on, let's hurry up."

  We did. I let her lead the way. She took a right and then a left, and I knew where she was headed. A few minutes later, we were at the end of Bat Lady's street. The house was gone, burned to the ground. Only a few beams remained upright. After all these years, after all the stories to frighten children, the legendary haunted abode of the Bat Lady had been reduced to ashes. Fire marshals stood in the front yard, jotting notes on clipboards. I thought about that old record player, the old vinyls by the Who and HorsePower and the Beatles. I thought about all those photographs--the ones of Bat Lady as a hippie in the sixties, of Ashley at Kasselton High, of the sad-eyed boy with the curly hair, of all the rest of those rescued children.

  All gone up in flames.

  So where was Lizzy Sobek, aka the Bat Lady? Where was Shaved Head, aka I Have No Idea What His Name Is? For that matter, where was the phony Butcher of Lodz, aka the San Diego Paramedic/Arsonist?

  Ema stood next to me. "Do you think it's over?"

  "What?"

  "The Abeona Shelter. Did the Butcher destroy it?"

  I thought about that. "I don't know. I don't think it's that easy to destroy a group that's been around so long." I moved a little to the left, so that I could look into the woods in the back.

  "What are you doing?" Ema asked.

  "The garage in the back. Remember?"

  "Oh, right," she said. "That's how Shaved Head would enter."

  "And that's how he brought me into the house to see her--through a tunnel running underground. There were corridors and other doors."

  The woods were too thick to see the garage, especially from this distance. That, I had figured, was intentional. It was supposed to be hidden.

  "We need to check it out," I said.

  "What? The garage and the tunnels?"

  I nodded. "We obviously can't do it now. Maybe tonight--when the fire marshal isn't here and no one can see us."

  I looked at her and again something started to bother me.

  "What?" she asked.

  "There's something different about you."

  I spotted a dark smudge on her arm. She saw me staring and pulled down her sleeve.

  "What was that?" I asked.

  "Nothing."

  But I kept thinking about the rumors Spoon had told me, about her living in the woods, about her father being a possible abuser. "Was that . . . was that a bruise?"

  "What? No." She stepped away, grabbing at her sleeve again. "I gotta go."

  "Don't do this again, Ema."

  "I'm fine, Mickey. Really."

  "Then how come you never invite me over?"

  Her eyes, usually meeting mine, found a tree in the distance. "My parents aren't big on company."

  "I don't even know where you live."

  "What difference does it make? Look, really, I have to get home. Let's text later. If we can both get out, we can come back here and try to find those tunnels."

  Ema started to hurry away. When she reached the edge of the woods, she looked behind her, as though making sure that I wasn't following her. Then she vanished into the thick. I wasn't sure what to do, so, as was my way, I did nothing. I just stood there like a dope. Something kept nagging my subconscious. I started combing through my mind, through recent memories, trying to figure out what it was, when I realized something.

  Have you ever seen those games where you have two seemingly identical pictures and you have to find six differences? It worked a little like that. I closed my eyes. I pictured Ema from a few days ago. I pictured her from today. What was different--and why was it bothering me?

  Difference One: The possible bruise on her arm.

  Did I really need a Difference Two?

  I stood there. Ema had been pretty clear. I should mind my own business. But that didn't mean I had to listen. Ema, despite her young age, seemed to get out a lot late at night. So did I, but my situation was pretty grim. She also had a lot of tattoos. What parent allows that at such a young age? Sure, that wasn't proof of anything. It was barely suspicious. But then you add in the secrecy, the woods, the possible bruise, the rumors . . .

  Sometimes the loudest cries for help are silent.

  I decided to follow her. Now.

  Ema would have a head start, but she wouldn't be running. If I kept my cool and moved quickly, I would be able to catch up. I tried to guess what direction she had gone in, but there really was no point. I wasn't a tracker. Instead I ran straight ahead, looking for any sig
ns of . . . what?

  Ema, I guess.

  That six-difference picture game came back to me as I moved through the thickening brush. I thought about the tattoo on the back of her neck. I remembered that there had been the tail of a snake in that area. The snake had been green . . . and now, wait, is that even possible . . . today it was more like purple.

  Huh?

  I kept running. Could that be it? I started to think about her tattoos and realized that they had somehow . . . changed?

  But so what?

  A few days ago, we had gone to Tattoos While U Wait and met with Agent, her tattoo artist. He was offbeat, sure, but I liked him. He had helped us too. So maybe she had gone back for some touch-up work.

  But didn't that usually require bandages and time to heal?

  I was just mulling that over, hurrying through the brush, when I heard a sound up ahead. I ducked behind a tree and peered out. There, in a small clearing maybe fifty yards ahead of me, was Ema.

  I'd found her.

  She had found a small path in the woods and was following it in what I thought was a western direction. I didn't have a compass and I wasn't much of a Boy Scout and, really, who cared what cardinal point she was heading toward?

  I stayed as far back as I could while keeping her in sight. This wooded area was actually part of the Kasselton reservoir. There were signs that you weren't supposed to be here, but the woods were also pretty huge and unpatrolled. Because Uncle Myron can't help but share, he told me how every fifth-grader in his day, including, of course, my father, had to collect wildflowers, identify them, and press them in a book. Most of the students found the flowers in these very woods. For some reason, Myron thought that I would find this fascinating.

  Then again, why was I thinking about it now?

  At first, I expected that Ema would eventually arrive at some kind of rusted sheet-metal shack hidden deep in this brush, but now I realized that probably didn't add up. Yes, I had never seen these woods patrolled, but that didn't mean that they weren't. This was a reservoir area. There was no way you could really build a house in here, even a dilapidated one. You'd have to move around. You'd have to maybe live in tents and keep a lookout or something.

  None of this made any sense.

  The sky began to darken. I thought again about not having a compass. We were getting deeper into the woods and while I could probably retrace my steps, I wasn't sure that I could do so by the light of my mobile phone. Thinking I better not lose her, I hurried my step.

  Ema turned to the left and started up a steeper hill. I stopped and watched. If I started up the hill too, she would spot me for sure. I waited until she was pretty much out of sight before I followed. Now, of course, I was getting nervous again about losing her. I scampered up the hill, keeping low.

  A twang of guilt strummed through my chest. I was secretly tailing my best friend. That didn't feel right, even if it was for her own good. For her own good. How often had that been used to justify dumb actions? Like this one.

  I should stop and go home.

  I debated that for a moment. I was seconds away from reconsidering my actions and turning around when I reached the top of the hill. There, blocking my way, was a chain-link fence.

  No sign of Ema.

  I looked right and then I looked left. The fence seemed to run as far as the eye could see. Every ten yards or so, there was a NO TRESPASSING sign, warning traveling woodsmen, I guessed, that they'd be prosecuted to the full extent of the law if they entered.

  Where had Ema gone?

  I moved right up against the chain-link fence and looked through it. There were more woods, but up ahead, maybe twenty or thirty yards, I thought I saw a clearing. Still I wasn't sure how that helped. There was no gate or door in the fence. Could Ema have doubled back around as I climbed up? I guessed it was possible, but it seemed doubtful. Maybe she had spotted me. Maybe Ema was hiding behind a tree.

  Frustrated, I reached out and grabbed the chain-link fence. I gave it a shake . . . and the fence gave way.

  What the . . . ?

  I looked closer. Someone had cut the wires where this part of the fence met up with the metal stake. You wouldn't notice it by just looking, but if you leaned against the chain link, the fence swung in almost like a door. I did that now. I pushed against it. A second later, ignoring the warning signs, I was on the other side of the fence.

  Well, I had already been thrown off the basketball team for a host of indiscretions. I might as well add trespassing to the list.

  Now what?

  I kept moving forward until, finally, I could see a clearing. For a moment I slowed my step. Once I was out of the trees, I'd be exposed. I had no idea what would be in front of me, but it wouldn't be wise to just blunder forward. At the same time, Ema probably had a pretty good lead on me by now, so I couldn't dawdle either.

  I got to the end of the tree line. When I looked into the clearing, I gasped.

  The first thing I saw was a huge garden of some sort. There wasn't much in bloom, but there were bushes carved in the shapes of animals. Topiaries. That was what they were called. There was a swan, a lion, a giraffe, an elephant--all life-size, made from green bushes. There were also white statues that looked like something from ancient Rome or Greece. I spotted a swimming pool and a gazebo, but what stunned me was the house that stood behind all this.

  The house, even from the back, still looked like a dark castle out of a Disney nightmare. I had just been here, though I had come up the long front drive rather than from the back.

  Uncle Myron had brought me here to meet Angelica Wyatt.

  Huh?

  I stood there for a moment or two, completely dumbfounded. The most obvious answer was that Ema used this stretch as a cut through. Maybe there was another opening in a fence on another part of the estate and that would lead to the dingy shack I kept picturing in my head. But that answer suddenly wasn't fully computing.

  I moved forward, closer to the house. It was so wide-open that the only way to do this and keep somewhat hidden was to sprint from hiding place to hiding place. So first I sprinted for the elephant topiary and stayed low behind its thick legs. Then I ran across the helipad and ducked behind a white statue of a woman wearing what looked like a toga and carrying a spear in one hand and a platter in the other. From there I made the big sprint to the side of the house.

  I pressed my back against it and slowly slid forward. Mickey Bolitar, Super Spy. I wasn't sure where I was going anymore or even what I was doing. I thought about texting Ema and simply asking where she was at this moment, but I had gone this far. I couldn't go back.

  When I made the turn around the corner, I stopped short. Ema stood in the middle of the courtyard. She frowned at me, her arms crossed.

  "Uh, hi," I said.

  Once again, my quick-witted tongue gets me out of trouble.

  "We have cameras all over this place, hotshot," Ema said. "You're lucky security didn't shoot you."

  I didn't know what to say, so I went with, "Sorry. I was just worried about you."

  She turned and started for the door. I didn't move.

  "Come on inside," Ema said. "You might as well learn the truth."

  CHAPTER 32

  Still reeling, I followed Ema into the dark mansion and then down to a finished basement. There was a sleek theater room with big comfortable chairs and a giant screen. A popcorn machine, like the kind you see at a theater, sat in one corner. On the walls were movie posters featuring Angelica Wyatt.

  I looked at the posters and then at Ema. She lowered her head and took a step back, wringing her hands. I looked again at the posters. I looked again at Ema. "I should have seen it," I said.

  "What?"

  "The eyes."

  Ema said nothing.

  "When I met Angelica Wyatt, I kept thinking how warm and comforting her eyes were. Like I could just talk to her forever. I couldn't figure out why I felt that way, but now I know."

  Ema looked up at me.

&
nbsp; "Is Angelica Wyatt your mother?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  "I don't understand. All those rumors . . ."

  "About my living in a shack and my father being a dangerous man who beat me or whatever?"

  I nodded.

  "I started them," Ema said. "It was a way to throw people off the scent."

  I waited for her to say more. When she didn't, I said, "But why?"

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "No."

  "Do you hear the way the boys in school talk about how hot Angelica Wyatt is? Imagine if they found out she was my mother."

  "I guess that could be weird."

  "Could be?"

  "Okay, I guess it would be."

  "And now imagine those mean girls who won't give me the time of day--imagine how they'd treat me if they knew my mother was a world-famous movie star."

  "They'd probably treat you like gold," I said.

  "And you think I want that--those horrible phonies inviting me to their parties and having to sit with them at lunch? How could I ever trust anyone, if they knew? How could I ever think anyone would like me for me?" Ema turned away. Her shoulders slumped.

  "What?" I said.

  "When I first heard that your uncle was watching my mother, do you know what I thought?"

  "No," I said.

  "I thought that maybe you knew the truth. That you knew all along I was Angelica Wyatt's daughter and that's why you started being nice to me."

  "I didn't know," I said.

  She kept her back to me.

  "Ema, look at me."

  She turned back toward me slowly.

  "I didn't know," I said. "It doesn't matter to me."

  "Okay," she said softly. "So why did we become friends?"

  "I don't know. I guess I'm drawn to total pains in the butt."

  Ema let herself smile. "Me too. But do you see what I mean?"

  "Yes," I said, my head still spinning. "But it seems a little extreme. And how do you get away with it? How does the school not know?"

  "My official name now is Emma Beaumont, not Emma Wyatt. The house is in my grandmother's maiden name. My mother sort of leads a secret double life. One, the glamorous movie star. Two, the normal mom. We are very careful about how we meet up. This house is secluded. She can come by car or directly by helicopter."

  I said nothing, but something must have shown on my face.

  Ema moved closer to me. "Tell me what you're thinking."

  "You want the truth?"

  "Yes."

  I sort of shrugged, stopped, and said, "Why didn't you tell me? I mean, I get the Troy and Buck argument. But I trust you with everything. After all we've been through, everything I've told you . . ."