Who I'm Not (14 page)

“Why?”

“Because I didn't know what was going on,” said Harley. “Everything was out of control.” I putted. The drawbridge opened. My ball went in the water. “Let me show you how it's done,” Harley said.

I hadn't known what he was talking about then. Now I did. In the middle of the night I got up and peered out the bedroom window, between the frame and the shade. A silver Camry was parked outside. Inside it, a red speck flared once and faded. It felt like a searchlight, pointed at me.

THIRTY-ONE

The deal was, if I could find out where Danny's body was, Griffin would let me run. Pumping Ty was my Get Out of Jail Free card.

I met Griffin the next night in the lot across the park from the library. I'd told Shan I was going to the library and then to Gillian's. The Camry was parked in the shadow of a maple that was starting to turn color. I got in the back. “Keep your hood up and your head down till I tell you,” Griffin said. He started the car.

I don't know what route he drove. I hunched low and watched light and shadow glide across the upholstery. It stank of dead cigarettes, like the couch at one of my foster homes. The vibration of the car synced with the fear humming in my gut. There were no streetlights now, just darkness, and the car kept rolling. “I think I might be sick back here,” I told him.

“We'll be there soon,” was all I got back. The car slowed. I felt it bump off the road. A little farther, then we stopped. “Wait,” Griffin said. He got out of the car. I waited. A moment later he opened my door. “Out and inside.”

We were out of town, parked behind some kind of barn or shed. A chilly breeze rustled the weeds—maybe we were close to the lake. The fresh air felt good. Griffin swung the barn door, and we went inside.

The place was dim and full of smells and junk: lumber, fence wire, tires, windows, an old Volkswagen. The dirt on the floor looked oily. Griffin pulled a string and light leaked from a bare bulb in the rafters. “Where are we?”

“It doesn't matter.” He led me behind a pile of boards. He had a plastic grocery bag. He took out white surgical tape and the box that held a battery-pack transmitter and the wire. “Pull up your shirt.” The chill grabbed at me. Griffin put on latex gloves. He was fast and efficient. He taped the transmitter to the small of my back. “Drop your pants.” He ran the wire under my crotch and up the center of my chest. The tape nagged at me every time I moved, glowing even whiter than my skin in the shadows.

“What do I say?”

He shrugged and tore off another piece of tape from the roll. “You're the crap expert.”

“What if I don't get him?”

“First, you may not get him tonight—it might take a little time. Second, I got nothing to do for the rest of my life. I'll come after you even if you run, and so will Homeland, the Mounties, FBI, you name it. You'll be looking over your shoulder until one of us gets you. And I guarantee you'll wish it's me. Lift your chin higher.”

“What if I can't?”

“Don't kid me. Bullshit is right up your alley.” He adjusted the wire and pressed the tape to my chest.

“What if you're wrong?”

“Sometimes I wish I was. But I'm not. Okay, we're done.” I pulled my jeans up and my shirt down. Griffin reached back into the plastic bag and handed me what looked like a joint in plastic wrap. “Put it in your pocket. Give it to him. It'll mellow him out and put you in good. He'll start talking anyway.”

We left the barn and drove again, me hunched in the back. I did what he told me. I couldn't see any other way. When he finally let me sit up, I had to slouch to keep the transmitter from digging into my back. Griffin lit a cigarette and cracked his window. A rush of road noise and cool air found me. “I'm not going to ask who you are,” he said over it.

And there it was again, my favorite question. “Danny,” I said. I knew it was pathetic now, and I knew I could have told him anything, but I wasn't giving up my last shred of…whatever—dignity, I guess. And in some weird way, I couldn't let Shan down. Griffin didn't say anything, just held his cigarette by the open window. The slipstream blew the smoke right back in to me. I said, “Why are you doing this?”

“I'm old-fashioned. I believe in truth and justice.”

“Shan already hates you.” I wanted to rub something in. “You'll flip her out.”

“It's not a nice thought to face, is it? One of your brothers murdering the other. I guess that means she's going to hate you too—if she doesn't already.”

I wasn't going to think about that. I pushed harder. “Doesn't that bother you?”

“Sure, it bothers me. Does it bother you how you've abused that family's trust?”

“What have I done except make them happy?”

Griffin took a last drag and flicked the half-smoked butt out the window. “You can't live a lie,” he said. “It's a cancer.”

“You are so wrong,” I muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Happiness isn't truth.” Griffin put up his window.

This time he was right. Happiness was
better
.

It was maybe half an hour to Peterborough. It was deep twilight now. We drove to a neighborhood of dumpy old houses. Griffin showed me Ty's place as we rolled past. It was especially crappy, with a mattress on the patch of front lawn and some two-by-fours propping up one end of the porch roof. He parked the car just around the corner and opened the glove compartment. The receiver for the wire was the size of an electric shaver. He plugged it into the dashboard outlet and unspooled an earbud connection. Then he looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Ground floor, back, number two. Front door's always open. He'll be there—he always is, this time of night. When you turn the corner out here, say something as a test. I'll flash my lights if it's working. If I don't, come back here.” I looked away and nodded, shrinking deeper into my hoodie. Griffin popped in the earpiece. “Got the joint?” I nodded again. “It'll get you in the door, get him started if nothing else. Then take your time, see what you can get. Like I said before, we may have to do this more than once.”

The hell with that, I thought. It was now or never. I swung the car door open.

“And…” Griffin said. I turned. “Be careful. He's jumpy as hell, even when he's stoned. We don't need anything happening to you”—I started to get out— “before this is done.” I slammed the door.

THIRTY-TWO

I had the shakes again. I stuffed my hands into the pouch of the hoodie and thought about running, but I knew it wouldn't help. I walked to the corner. The sidewalk was wet; the grass glistened under the street and house lights. It must have rained earlier—I hadn't noticed. “Test,” I mumbled. “Danny counts one, two, three.” I glanced back. The Camry's lights flashed.

Up close, Ty's place looked even worse. The rainsoaked mattress on the lawn had scorch marks on it and wads of burnt stuffing exploding from one end. The yard was all empties. One of the porch steps was broken, and the storm door hung wide open. It had no glass, just a torn screen. I pulled my hand into my sleeve before I tried the main door—I didn't want anything connecting me with this place.

The door was unlocked, like Griffin had said it would be. Inside was a cramped hallway. The scuff marks on the walls were lit by a tilting ceiling fixture. There were stairs on the right, battered little mailboxes on the left. Beside the mailboxes was a door with a black number one on a slanted gold sticker. At the end of the hall was a two. Between them, a kitchen space and a bathroom, doors open, were competing with the reek of weed to see which could smell worst. There was no sound.

I thought again about running. Then I shut the front door softly and cat-footed down the cracked lino to Ty's door. Now I could hear shuffling sounds and the dribble of hip-hop from earbuds. I kept my hand in my sleeve and tapped. The door felt about as sturdy as cardboard. “Ty?” I kept my head down, trying to muffle my voice. Nothing. I tapped harder. The door wobbled under my knuckles. The tinny hip-hop got louder, as if a bud had popped loose. The shuffling got closer.

“What, what?” from behind the door.

“It's me,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“What, who?”

I had to go for it. “It's
me
, Danny,” I hissed.

The door jerked open a few inches. Ty looked out at me, more like death than ever. I could tell he didn't recognize me. “Hey,” I said. He focused on me; his eyes flared and he sucked in his breath. Then he did that neckroll thing and said, “Ah, ah, not now, dude. Not a good time.” He started to close the door.

I actually shoved my foot forward, like some cheesy salesman. “C'mon, Ty, we gotta talk,” I said, patting my pocket.

His eyes flicked down. More twitching. “You holding, dude?”

I nodded. He stepped back and I slipped in, close enough to smell whatever the hell was on his breath.

The room had a table, a chair, a floor lamp and a mattress with a sleeping bag crumpled on it. 50 Cent glared down from one wall. On the opposite wall there was a fist-sized hole in the plaster. A Confederate flag draped the window. There was a pile of clothes in one corner and a bong beside the mattress. The floor was a litter of empties, sub wrappers, cardboard slice triangles, what I guessed were crack pipes, and a couple of mini gas bottles like the ones Harley used to have for a portable barbecue. It was cold in there, but I was sweating. I could feel the surgical tape, the transmitter, the wire, all clutching at me. I wondered if it picked up my heart racing. “Whattaya got?” Ty said. He was twitching up a storm. His earbuds were dangling, still rasping away.

I fished out the joint and tossed it to him. He missed the catch, then pounced on it, hands and knees, as it landed beside what might have been the top of a little blowtorch. “That's it?”

“Whaddaya want? Those suckers cost, dude. It's for you. To say thanks, like.” Already I was mimicking him. I wasn't even trying.

“No worries, no worries.” He had it out of the wrap and was snapping a lighter, still kneeling in the crap on the floor. He wore a grubby camo hoodie. The pocket on the right side bulged. The bulge was the size of a lot of things, all of them bad. I took a step back and bumped the table. A plastic soda bottle rolled to the floor. Ty didn't notice—he was too busy sucking on the joint. I hooked the chair closer with my foot. I figured I could hit him with it if I had to.

Ty let out a long jet of smoke and flopped onto the mattress, back against the wall. His eyes were still bouncing everywhere, but they kept coming back to me. “So…little bro…” Now his feet were jerking around too.

“How you hangin'?” I said.

“Dude, you don't wanna hear. Don't wanna know.”

“Sure I do.”

“Well, I'm not so good, man. Cupboard's bare. Not feeling…up to snuff, you know?” He gave an electric little cackle, then took another toke and waved the joint. “I was thinking some bad thoughts, just now, before you come.”

“What kind of bad thoughts?” I wished I was closer to the door, just in case.

“Don't wanna know, dude, don't wanna. Bad, bad thoughts, things comin' back…But brother W helps, dude. Helps…”

“Good,” I said. “I just wanted to pass on a little thankyou, 'kay?”

His eyes got narrow and shrewd. Stoner shrewd. Harley had always told me that heavy dopers get paranoid. “What for?”

I took a breath, felt my way. “Well, I've been…hearing things, you know?”

He went rigid. “What kind of things, dude?”

“Just really weird shit, man. About you—and that people thought…”

He erupted into jerks and neck twisting. His hand wobbled over the big pocket, then he hit on the joint again, like his life depended on it. As he blew out he said, “Who's…saying stuff?”

Now I was going an inch at a time. I couldn't take my eyes off him. “Well…like, the cops? They were all over me, you know…and they…”

“IT'S NOT TRUE!” I was ready for it, but I still flinched, jolting the table. Ty slapped the pocket, snarling. Ash from the joint spilled onto his leg and the mattress. There wasn't much more than a roach left now.

It was too scary. I started easing toward the door. I forced a deep breath, held up my hands, did my best casual. “Well, duh. 'Course it's not true. I'm here, aren't I?”

He jerked and settled back down, except for one foot that kept kicking. Only now something was different: the other foot was digging into the mattress, and he was pressing himself back against the wall, almost as if he was trying to get away from me. He did the neck twist and took a stab at a smile. “That's right. Absolutely, dude, absolutely. You're back.” Ty's right hand with the roach was on the bulging pocket. His mouth was open and his wired eyes were locked on mine, but the look wasn't stoner shrewd anymore. At first I didn't know what it was. Then I did: he was scared. That was all I needed.

Back in the Bad Time, sometimes I'd take it out on even littler kids at schools. All it took was that same look in their eyes, and I'd be on them. I could feel myself changing gears, taking control. Griffin was right— I had words, now that the time had come. It felt so good, I never stopped to think they might be the wrong ones. “That's why I appreciate you giving me the chain, man.” I held my hands palms up, as if this was a no-brainer. I heard my voice get confidential. “That sucker is, like, worth its weight in gold to me. It was in my description.”

“No shit? No worries, dude.”

“So, like you said, we're in it together? All the way?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, all the way.” He was pushing away so hard I thought he'd go through the wall. I tried not to look at the hand.

“
Ex
cellent. So, listen, I wanted to give you something back to show it's the real deal, that I'll keep it together, you know?”