You Can Run (13 page)

“I still know a few people,” my father said. He was being modest. He knows a lot of people. Cop people. “I'll get in touch, see if I can give them a nudge.”

“I'd rather have you handle it, Mac,” Mr. Hanover said. “So would Denise. She doesn't think the police are even interested. And after all the wild stories Trisha told them last time. . . .” He sighed. “All I need to know is where I can find her. So that I can at least try to talk to her.”

“Of course,” my father said. “If that's what you want.” Then he said, “There's something I need your help with, Carl. I've been trying to get a meeting with Trevor Bailey.”

Carl Hanover blinked. “Trevor? What do you want with Trevor?”

“I've been looking into the fire at the Doig place. I understand that he was the adjuster on that. You work with him, right?”

This was news. Carl Hanover had some connection to the job my father was working on. Is that why Vern had given my father that look down in La Folie the first time my father had mentioned his name?

Carl Hanover nodded.

“I'm looking into it for a client,” my father said. “But I've hit a road block. Apparently your boss put the word out not to talk to me.”

“I don't understand,” said Carl Hanover. “What is there to look into?”

“Trevor hasn't said anything to you about it, Carl, has he?”

“No,” he said. “I haven't been at work much since Denise got sick again. What's going on, Mac? Are you saying that you don't think the fire was accidental? Because it was my understanding that the fire investigator said—”

“I need to talk to Trevor Bailey,” said my father. “I need to ask him a few questions. I'd also like to know if he talked to Howie Maritz, what Maritz said to him.”

Carl Hanover said he would see what he could do. Then he said he'd better get going. My father said “Just a minute,” and got up and walked him to the door while I started clearing the dishes off the table. He stepped out into the hall with Carl Hanover and stayed out there for a few minutes. I could hear them talking, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. When my father came back inside, he didn't ask me any more questions about Trisha. Instead we cleaned up the kitchen together. He put some music on for us while we worked. When we finished, I glanced at my watch.

“I have to go, Dad,” I said.

“I'd love to offer you a ride home, Robbie, but I kind of have plans. . . .”

“It's okay, Dad,” I said. I hadn't come to my father's place just to deliver the photos of Trisha. I had another reason for wanting to be in his neighborhood. For that same reason, I didn't want the ride home. Nor did I want to tell him where I was really going. “I'll take the bus,” I said. “And anyway, I have to stop at Morgan's. I need to borrow some notes.”

“You sure you'll be okay?” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “You act like I've never gone home on my own before,” I said. “Of course I'll be okay.”

He kissed me on the top of my head and told me to be careful.

 

. . .

It was a fifteen-minute walk from my father's loft in the trendy part of what used to be a downscale neighborhood to the high school in a part of the same neighborhood that was still run-down. The lights were on in the school gymnasium. I headed across the parking lot toward it, thinking about what I was going to say when I got there. I'd been thinking about it all the way from my father's house. Not just what I was going to say, but whether I should say anything at all. I guess that's why I didn't do the standard safety check that my father had taught me: Always be aware of who's on the street with you—front, back, and both sides. Always be aware if anyone is taking an interest in you. Always be aware of stores that are open and lights that are on in case you need help. Never go into isolated areas, like empty parking lots, at night.

I didn't even think about the safety check until I heard something behind me. I turned and saw a car swing into the parking lot and advance toward me. I picked up my pace, walking quickly toward the gym door. The car sped up. I doubled my pace. There were lights on in the gym, but they were shining through narrow windows at the very top of a solid brick wall. I couldn't see what was happening inside and, for sure, no one inside could've seen what was happening out in the lot. There were houses in the vicinity, but none of them overlooked the lot. My heart was racing, but it slammed to a stop when the car circled around me and pulled up before the gym door, blocking my path and almost blinding me with its headlights. The driver's door opened, but I didn't have a clear view of the driver's face. When he stepped in front of the headlights, all I saw was an enormous, shadowy shape.

I should have listened to my father.At the very least, I should have told him the truth about where I was going.

M
y father says that nothing makes a bad situation worse than panic. So, he says, when you find yourself in a bad situation, take a deep breath. Take stock. Figure out what you're up against. Only then can you make a rational decision about what to do.

I drew in a deep breath—and another and another. I reviewed my situation. I was alone in a dark, deserted parking lot with a strange man whose intentions were unknown. What was the rational thing to do?

I looked up at the lights twinkling out of the high-set gymnasium windows. They were all closed tight against the cool of the night, but still, if I screamed loudly enough. . . . I opened my mouth.

“Robyn?” the shadowy figure said. He stepped a little to the side of the headlights so that I could see who it was.

“Mr. Hanover?” He had scared me practically to death.

“I was driving by and I thought I saw you. I didn't mean to startle you,” he said.

Startle? How about terrify?

“It's okay,” I said, even though it wasn't.

“Look, I know you told your father that you didn't find out anything at school. But I'm not so old that I can't remember what it's like to be your age. To feel more connected to your peers than to your parents.” He looked the same as he had back at my father's place—worried, sad, and frightened. Nothing at all scary about him. He reached into his pocket. “Trisha's mother wrote this last night,” he said. He pulled out an envelope. “She can't sleep for all the worry. So she wrote Trisha a letter. I told her there was no way to get it to her, but she said she had to put things on paper. If there's any chance at all that you can get this to her, I'd be so grateful. We both would be.” He held the envelope out to me. “Take it,” he said. “If you can't deliver it, fine. I understand. But her mother. . . .” His voice broke. He turned his head away from me and raised a hand to his eyes. He was wiping away tears. “Take it. Please. If you can get her to send a note back—or just
call
, so that we know she's all right—it would mean everything to her mother. If you see her, even if you can't get her to call home, you could let us know how she is.”

I looked at the envelope in his hand.

“I don't know where she is,” I said. And that was true. “I don't know how I could get it to her.” Or maybe I did.

He was still holding the envelope out to me, like a piece of bright hope in an otherwise dark night.

“Even the slightest chance,” he said.

I stepped forward and took it from him.

“Mr. Hanover, I really don't know if there's anything I can do.”

“Thank you,” he said, as if he hadn't heard me. “Thank you.” He stood there for a moment. I thought he was going to say something else, but he didn't. He nodded at me and thanked me again in a quiet voice. Then he got into his car and drove away.

I carried the envelope over to the gym door and stepped into the light to inspect it more closely. The envelope was cream-colored, smooth—and heavy. There was something besides paper inside. Something round and flat. I could feel it. I wondered what it was. I tucked it into my backpack and pushed open the gym door. As soon as I did, I heard the thump of a basketball being dribbled. Then a roar filled the air.
Basket
, I thought. I peeked through the little round window in the inner gym door as a whistle shrilled. Another roar went up from one end of the bleachers. Game over.

I looked along the bench for the coach of the winning team—a smallish, balding man with a pink face and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked surprised to see me but smiled and waved. When he finished talking to his team, he jogged over to me.

“Robyn, what are you doing here?” he said. He looked behind me, as if he were hoping to see someone with me. As if he were hoping to see my mother.

“Hi, Ted,” I said. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“Oh, I get it,” he said. “Mac.” Ted knows that my father lives in the area. To my mother's chagrin, Ted even likes my father. Ted is like that. He likes everyone.

“Can we talk?” I said.

He looked around again and still seemed disappointed that I was alone.“Sure, Robyn.As long as you don't mind waiting.”

It took a few minutes for both teams to settle down and for everyone to shake hands. The players and coaches retreated to the locker room and the gym began to empty of spectators. By the time Ted reappeared in his street clothes, I was alone.

“How about I drive you home?” he said. “We can talk on the way.” When I hesitated, he sighed and said, “I see.”

“See what?”

“Your mom doesn't know you're here, does she?”

I shrugged.

“Okay,” he said. “How about if I drive you most of the way home?”

We went out into the parking lot together. For the first part of the drive, we talked about how the basketball game had gone, who the best player on his team was, what the team's chances were for the city championships. Finally, Ted said, “How's your mother?”

I said she was okay.

He glanced at me. Maybe to see if I was telling the truth, maybe to figure out what I knew.

“What happened, Ted?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Between you and Mom.”

“I think your mother is the best person to ask about that.”

“She won't tell me.”

He shrugged. “Well, then—”

“Did you dump her, Ted?”

The car swerved a little. I grabbed at the dashboard while he straightened the steering wheel. “Is that what she told you?” he said.

“She didn't tell me anything. But I can tell she's upset. I know it's none of my business, but. . . .”

Ted stole another glance at me. He was taking extra care with his driving now. We covered a dozen or so blocks before he said, “I asked her to marry me.”

If I had been driving, the car would have swerved again, probably right off the road. “Really?”

He looked pretty grim for a man who had just proposed.

“She said no, huh?” I said.

“She said she'd have to think about it. Frankly, she looked stunned when I asked her. Not pleasantly surprised. Not even plain, old-fashioned surprised.” He shook his head. “I have to tell you, Robyn, it wasn't the reaction I'd hoped for.And since then. . . .” He shrugged. “Since then I've talked to her secretary and left messages on her voice mail, but I haven't talked to her. Not that I haven't tried. She isn't returning my calls.”

“Oh.”

He glanced at me again. “So, how is she?”

I wasn't sure how to answer. “She said you two had decided to take a break from each other.”

“A break?”

“I thought you must have dumped her, but she didn't want to come right out and tell me. She's miserable,Ted.”

He glanced at me as he digested what I had said. I think he was trying to look appropriately upset, but he was working hard to suppress a genuine smile. I had a pretty good idea what he was thinking: If she's miserable, then she must care about him. Maybe she's even considering his proposal. If she had already made up her mind not to marry him, then why was she upset?

“I guess she needs time,” he said.“Sometimes I forget.”

“Forget what?”

“What she went through with your dad.”

I looked out at familiar streets and houses. “You can drop me here, Ted.”

 

. . .

My mother met me at the door. “I tried to call you, but you must have shut off your cell phone again,” she said. “I had to call your father to find out where you were. I also called Morgan.”

Uh-oh. I'd forgotten to ask Morgan to cover for me. No wonder my mother had a pinched, worried look on her face.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“I'm almost sixteen,” I said, which, if you know anything at all about lawyers, was the absolute worst answer I could have given her. Lawyers are maniacs for precision. When they ask a question, they expect that question to be answered, not some other question.

My mother's blue eyes narrowed to laser points. “Where. Were. You.”