Chasing the Skip (2 page)

“I need to go see Cal,” Dad said. “Just got off the phone with him. He’s got another job for me.”

“Maybe we could go back to Grandma’s first? To see if Mom’s there?” Grandma lived in Salt Lake, which was an eight-hour drive from Denver, and an hour from Mom’s old place. Jamie didn’t have money for gas, so I hadn’t seen him since the night Mom disappeared and I took the bus up to Grandma’s. At least then we’d been able to talk on my cell phone, before it got shut off.

Mom often left for a week or so without notice, and I’d catch a bus to stay with Grandma until she came back. Grandma always said that Mom shouldn’t be abandoning me just to take trips with her boyfriends. She’d glare and huff when Mom came to pick me up, but we all knew she didn’t want me staying alone, either.

But this time Mom had been gone for a month. Three weeks in, Grandma decided she couldn’t deal with me anymore, so she convinced Dad to come pick me up. A month was a long time to go without school, or seeing Anna or Jamie. Or Mom, for that matter. I should have just crashed with Anna instead of going to Grandma’s. Anna wouldn’t have called my dad. Her parents would have been nosy about it, though.

“I called your grandmother, too,” Dad said. “She still hasn’t heard anything.”

“But maybe Mom will show up while we’re on our way there. She’s never been gone this long before.”

Dad shook his head. “Grandma will call me as soon as she hears from your mom. I’ll drive you back when that happens.”

“Even if you’re in the middle of a job?”

“Even then.”

Dad started up the truck and backed out onto the street. Silence stretched between us, and I tried to think of something else to talk about. On the drive from Salt Lake to Denver I’d thought I’d punish him by not talking at all. Then I realized he actually
likes
the silence. I guess you’d have to if you were going to drive all over the country by yourself chasing skips—the only company Dad seemed to need were his recorded books. Besides, after three weeks with no one but Grandma to talk to and then a week stuck in Dad’s parked travel trailer, all I wanted to do was talk.

“How old is Alison?” I asked.

“Twenty-one.”

“She looks younger than that.”

“Yeah, well, she acts pretty young too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dad sighed. “It means she doesn’t take responsibility for her own life. And her own kid. I pick up a lot of people like that.”

“People who don’t pay child support?”

“People who don’t take responsibility for their choices.”

“Being young isn’t the same as being irresponsible.”

“Sometimes it is.”

“I’m younger than her, and I’m responsible.” Mom always told me that. I did most of the cooking, and a lot of the shopping. I’d had a credit card in her name and a fake ID that said I was her since I was thirteen, so I could buy food when she forgot.

Dad looked over at me, but he didn’t respond.

“You don’t think so?”

“You getting that homework done?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m responsible for things that matter.”

“Homework does matter.”

“It’s not like you’re Mr. Education. You just did bail enforcement training in a couple of states.”

“Maybe I want better for you.”

“Whatever.”

“Besides, not all education comes from school.” He patted the music player on the dashboard. “I may be on the road, but I’m always learning something. I can download audio versions of your English books, if that’ll make it easier for you. Maybe you’re an auditory learner like me.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “I think I’m more of a hands-on person.”

“Yeah,” Dad said. “Your mom was like that too.”

“See?” I said. “I’m not being irresponsible. I just take after her.”

“I suppose she’s proof of your point. Responsibility doesn’t come with age, after all.”

I gritted my teeth. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

Dad’s chin dropped slightly, and he was quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I shouldn’t say things like that in front of you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t say things like that
at all
.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever. Why are you apologizing to me?” Mom never did, so I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Because I feel bad for what I said. Responsible people apologize when they upset someone.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers.”

Dad laughed then, which also wasn’t the response I expected.

What stung was that I knew he was right about Mom. She worked to support us, of course, although she counted on me to do a lot of the responsible stuff other moms did for their kids. But she was a single mom, which was harder. Besides, it wasn’t like I didn’t get anything out of the deal. I never had a curfew. Mom would let me leave whenever I wanted and come home when I pleased. And a couple of times a week she didn’t even come home at night herself. She said that’s why I was more responsible: She didn’t give me anything to rebel against.

I pulled out my notebook again, opening to the page where I left off.
Dad and I are headed out to find him another job. Mom still hasn’t called.
Maybe if I put that last part in the blog, Mom would see it and call me.

“At least you’re getting some homework done now,” Dad said. “I’m glad I brought you along today.”

I smiled.

“And I don’t think you’re irresponsible. You just need to apply some of that responsibility to your education.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I get it.”

If Mom could run off, leaving her job and our apartment and all her other responsibilities, I didn’t see why I should keep being the responsible one. Look where all that responsibility got me. Stuck on the road with a father who’d never wanted me and a mother who’d disappeared for a month. The way I saw it, life was easier for irresponsible people.

Denver, Colorado.

Days since Mom left: 29.

Distance from Salt Lake City, Utah: 537.14 miles.

2

Calvin Zabrinsky owned a bail bond office in downtown Denver. I expected it to be in a seedy neighborhood surrounded by liquor stores, pawn shops, and payday loan places. Instead the office sat in a sleek building with glass walls, right between a psychiatrist and a law firm.

Dad parked the truck so that it faced the shopping center across the street. When he opened the truck door, the cold October wind slapped me in the face. I unbuckled my seat belt, but Dad shook his head.

“Wait here,” he said. “This won’t take long.”

I sighed as Dad disappeared into the building. A girl could only take so much waiting, so I followed him. Dad wouldn’t complain once I got in there—not in front of Cal, anyway.

I checked my watch. Three o’clock. If Mom hadn’t disappeared, I’d be riding on the back of Jamie’s motorcycle, headed home from school. What would Jamie be doing without me? He’d better not be giving a ride to some other girl. I’d have to e-mail Anna later, to ask her to check up on him.

I took my time walking across the parking lot to Cal’s office. As I opened the door, a little bell rang over my head. Dad stood across a counter from a football-shaped man. His body sloped to a point at his head and feet, with a big, round belly in between.

Dad already had his check in hand. Both he and Cal looked at me. They glanced at each other, and then Cal cleared his throat. They were probably talking about me.

“You must be Ricki,” Cal said, a fake-chipper tone to his voice. “I was just asking Max when he was going to bring you in.”

I was glad Dad had the sense to go by Max, which was the first part of Maxwell, our last name. Max was a much better bounty-hunter name than Robert, his real first name. Of course, Cal knew both of Dad’s names.

“Well, here I am,” I said, looking at Dad. “Are you done?”

Dad shook his head. “Take a seat.” He turned back to Cal. “How about that other job?”

Cal watched Dad for a second, as if he was trying to decide something. “Okay,” he said. “Just a second.” He disappeared back into his office. Dad took a lollipop out of the basket on the counter and waved it at me. “You want one?” he asked.

“No, thanks. Mom says you are what you eat.”

“Candy?” Dad asked.

“A sucker.”

Dad smiled. “I walked into that one.”

I plopped myself down in a seat and picked up a copy of
Time
magazine. I was behind on the news, but so is
Time
, since it only comes out once a week. I wondered if Cal’s clients were really that interested in politics. Maybe if
Time
did a lot of articles about prison reform.

The cover story in this issue was about a bombing in Afghanistan. The cover had a picture of the secretary of state standing right next to the Afghan leader, deep in conversation. That story broke while I was at Grandma’s, reading the news on her ultraslow Internet.

Cal came back and handed a folder to Dad, who looked the papers over.

“It’s what you asked for,” Cal said.

“You take requests?” I asked.

Cal laughed. “Not exactly.”

Dad chewed at the corner of his mouth.

“What’s the matter?” Cal asked. “Not what you wanted?”

“No,” Dad said. “It’s fine.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

Dad flipped another page. “Nothing.”

Cal shrugged. “It’s a little riskier than usual, is all.”

“Riskier?” I asked Dad. “What kind of danger are you putting me in?”

Dad shook his head at me, and I returned the sweetest smile I could manage.

“Really, Max,” Cal said, “if you’re not sure, you don’t have to take it. Could be rough with your daughter along.”

Dad shook his head. “We’ll manage.”

Cal rolled his eyes. “I should have gone with my gut and steered clear of this one. I knew he was going to run, but he’s a kid. I’ve got a soft spot for kids.”

“He’s seventeen,” Dad said, looking at the paperwork. “That’s old enough to know better.”

That was even younger than Alison. “Don’t you ever go after adults?” I asked.

Dad didn’t look back at me. “Sure,” he said. “Just have a couple of young ones this week, that’s all.”

“It’s my fault,” Cal said. “I’m the one taking the risk on ’em. You can have a different job, if you want. I’ve got a guy who skipped on reckless driving. Pay’s not as good, but it’d probably be quick.”

“No,” Dad said. “I’ll take this one. He’s just a kid, like you said.”

Cal waved a finger at Dad. “I never said ‘just.’ ‘Just’ is a dangerous word for a bounty hunter.”

“Bail bond enforcement officer,” I said. Both Cal and Dad laughed.

Ms. Nielson said that journalists didn’t just report the news. They asked deep questions to find the story. If Dad was hunting a kid, there had to be a story there somewhere.

“So who is this kid?” I asked.

“His name’s Ian Burnham,” Dad said. “Like the woods, but spelled differently.”

I set the magazine back on the table. “The woods?”

Dad sighed, shaking his head at me. “We’ve got to get you listening to some Shakespeare, Rick.”

“Don’t call me Rick. That’s a boy’s name.”

“Ricki’s a boy’s name too,” Dad said. “But your mom sure liked it. She only named you Erica because your grandma insisted.”

“Well, I like Ricki, not Rick. Are you done yet?”

“Almost,” Dad said, looking over the papers. “This lists all the charges?”

“Just the ones they thought they could make stick.”

Dad tapped his pen on the counter, squinting.

I stood up and walked over to the counter to grab that lollipop after all. If Dad was going to take this long about it, I needed sugar. “Do you think about all your jobs this much?”

“It pays to think twice,” Dad said. Then he set the folder down on the counter and signed the top paper.

Cal took it from him, looked it over, and then signed it himself. He frowned at me. “You be careful, okay?” he said to Dad. “It could mean both our asses if she gets hurt.”

“I’ll take care of her,” Dad said. “It’ll just be a few more days.”

In a few days I’d probably be back with Mom. I hoped Dad was right about that.

Cal opened his mouth like he was going to say something else but thought better of it. He opened a file drawer and dropped the signed paper into it.

Dad gave Cal a sharp nod, and we left. On our way across the parking lot, Dad shook his head at me.

“I’ll drop you by the library for an hour. You need to get those homework assignments typed up and sent off.”

I hadn’t done any homework, but I kept my mouth shut about that. “I could do it tomorrow.”

“I’ve got a meeting tonight, so you can do it now. I’ll pick up dinner on my way back. What do you want?”

In the last week, we’d exhausted the range of fast food. “Tacos?” I said. At least those weren’t deep fried.

“Tacos it is.”

“What’s this meeting? You already talked to Cal.”

Dad was quiet for a second. “It’s personal.”

I sighed. “Fine.” Maybe Dad had a girlfriend he didn’t want me to know about. It’s not like that would bother me. I didn’t have any illusions about my parents getting back together. Mom had plenty of boyfriends.

Maybe his girlfriend didn’t like kids or didn’t know he had a daughter. I might be the one he was hiding, not her.

I steered the conversation back toward the job. “Why did Cal keep telling you that you don’t have to take this one?”

“He worries. He’s not comfortable with me taking you along. That’s why I asked you to stay in the car.”

“Whatever. Was he this concerned about Alison?”

“I don’t think he expected Alison to be dangerous.”

“I thought it was your job to bring in dangerous people.” We reached the truck, and I walked around to the passenger side, still waiting for Dad to answer. We both climbed in.

“I don’t usually take the riskier jobs,” Dad said. “Ten little jobs will pay the bills just as well as one big one, and they’re a lot safer besides.”

“How would you know which ones are big ones?”

“More serious crimes. Longer sentences. People skipping child support or running from a drunk and disorderly aren’t likely to shoot the guy who’s coming to get them. A guy who’s looking at prison for ten to fifteen, though…”