“Virgil’s got social studies this period—”
“Does he have the disk?” Kirsten pressed. “I can’t wait, Maria.”
“I think he put it in his jacket pocket, which is in his locker—”
“Ohhhhh!”
“What are you moaning about?”
“You said he was in social studies.”
Maria grinned and flexed her fingers. “But he didn’t take his locker with him.”
She went to the librarian and somehow wangled a hall pass. Then she and Kirsten went straight to Virgil’s locker.
Maria opened it with ease. Virgil’s jacket was hanging on a hook, and she took out the disk. “He thinks I don’t know the combination,” she said with a giggle.
They raced to the computer lab. Mr. Ruggiero was hacking away inside, all by himself.
“Oh, hi! Boy, are we glad you’re here!” Maria exclaimed. “Kirsten and I were working on a project, and some of the files got erased. Our teacher let us come see you about it. Do you have a minute? It’s an Apple disk.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Mr. Ruggiero took the disk and inserted it into the Mac that Virgil had been using.
“Maybe you should replace that mouse,” Maria suggested. “It’s defective.”
Mr. Ruggiero clicked it a couple of times. “Seems okay now,” he said. “Okay, let me run a utility program on this and see what we come up with… .”
He clicked away furiously, until the screen was filled with chicken scratch. “Looks like somebody was messing with the File Allocation Table. I think I can fix that.”
After a few minutes, he got up out of the chair and gestured for Kirsten to sit. “Okay. It should work, but you’ll need to reboot with the disk in the drive.”
Kirsten sat down and booted up the computer. The hard drive whirred. Words flashed across the screen. A software name. A copyright warning. “It’s working!” she squealed.
Finally the screen stopped flashing and a single message appeared:
WELCOME TO YOUR DISK, N. TRANG! TO PROCEED, ENTER PASSWORD.
“Password?” Kirsten repeated.
“Oh, brother,” Maria mumbled.
Mr. Ruggiero was sitting at his computer now. Over his shoulder he called, “You forgot your own password?”
Quickly Maria blurted, “We changed it … yesterday. I remember! Wasn’t it …” She bent down and whispered into Kirsten’s ear, “Just try things.”
“Yeah, that was it!” Kirsten replied a little too loudly.
What had her software manual said about passwords? She had skimmed over the chapter, and almost nothing had stuck in her mind—except that you should choose something meaningful to you but to absolutely no one else.
Kirsten typed in NGUYEN and then pressed the Enter key.
TRY AGAIN, the screen taunted.
She tried TRANG.
Then VIETNAM.
PORT LINCOLN (Maria’s suggestion).
ANCHOR.
He liked cars: FERRARI, PORSCHE, MIATA, ESCORT …
He did magic tricks: HOUDINI, MAGIC, ABRACADABRA …
They tried words until the bell rang at the end of the period. “This is totally absurd,” Maria said. “It could be anything—his favorite baseball player, his favorite color, what he likes to eat… . It’s probably something like the Vietnamese word for Twinkie. I say give up.”
Kirsten looked at her watch. “I’m going to stick with it a couple more minutes.”
“Suit yourself. See you.”
As Maria joined the stream of kids in the hallway, Kirsten stared at the screen.
TRY AGAIN.
She was so close! She owed it to Nguyen to do this. Even if his journal gave her nothing, he deserved the effort.
Besides, she didn’t think she could deal with any more visits from him.
What was the name of that organization that sent the letter?
OUTREACH, she typed.
That didn’t work either. Kirsten wondered where the forwarded letter was now. Somewhere between Port Lincoln and who-knew-where, carrying just the news the Trangs wanted to hear—that Nguyen’s entire family was dead now.
The family that no one knew about. The family Nguyen probably longed for his whole life long. The late Mr. and Mrs. Haing.
Kirsten nearly sprang out of her chair.
Her fingers attacked the keyboard.
HAING.
The screen blanked.
The hard drive started chugging.
Kirsten stared in amazement as a full-color display appeared on the screen—all kinds of electronic doodads, surrounding the words, YO, NGUYEN, WHAT’S UP?
Below it was today’s date and a small menu.
“Yes!” Kirsten shouted.
RIIIINNNNNG! went the bell for the start of the next period.
“Uh, don’t you have class?” Mr. Ruggiero asked.
“One minute,” Kirsten said.
Mr. Ruggiero sighed and mumbled something about “senioritis.”
Nguyen’s first entry was almost two years ago. It was all about cars. So was the next day’s entry, and the next. The fourth day mentioned a good grade on a science exam.
It was a real snoozer, but Kirsten felt guilty reading it.
He’s dead, Kirsten said to herself. He’s not going to get mad at you.
And she didn’t have to tell the ghost.
She scrolled ahead to April of this year. He had entries on the tenth, twelfth, fifteenth… .
APRIL 18.
Bingo.
Kirsten began to read:
Today stunk. School was OK, but I couldn’t concentrate. Gwen again. (OF COURSE.) The latest? She’s not sure she likes me. I KNEW IT! I’m getting so sick of this. I am such a fool. I TOLD her last week I thought she still liked Rob. “Rob? What a dork.” THOSE WERE HER EXACT WORDS. LIAR!
And after what I gave her. She’ll never know what that meant to me. How could I be so stupid? How am I going to get it back?
Oh, speaking of all this, guess who just called and wants to see me tonight?
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Kirsten turned around in time to get Virgil’s forearm across her shoulders. She lost her balance and fell to the floor.
Virgil hunched over the computer, staring wide-eyed at the screen, fumbling with the mouse.
“Virgil!” Kirsten cried.
“What’s gotten into you, Garth?” Mr. Ruggiero bellowed. He pushed Virgil aside and helped Kirsten off the floor.
Virgil’s face was red! “She stole that disk!” he shouted, his voice shrill and desperate.
Kirsten scrambled onto the chair and read the rest of Nguyen’s entry:
Rob Maxson. I’m supposed to meet him on Riverside Drive. He says he found a Ferrari in the woods. Maybe I can talk to him about Gwen.
Those were the last words Nguyen Trang wrote before he died.
Chapter 22
VIRGIL WAS ON HIS knees now, shoulder to shoulder with Kirsten, reading the screen. His body slumped.
Kirsten looked at him when she finished. He looked deflated. Terrified.
“You know about this, don’t you?” Kirsten asked.
Virgil swallowed. He glanced over his shoulder into the empty hallway. “Yeah.”
Mr. Ruggiero glanced at the screen briefly, then said, “Are you two cool now? No more trouble?”
“We’re all right,” Kirsten replied.
As Mr. Ruggiero went back to his computer, Kirsten asked, “Want to go someplace to talk?”
“I have class,” Virgil said.
“So do I. Come on, we’re late already. A few more minutes won’t hurt.”
“Well …” Virgil pursed his lips nervously, ran his fingers through his hair. “All right. I guess. Let’s go out the exit near the ball field.”
He left the room first. When Kirsten followed, she caught a glimpse of Mr. Busk walking quickly away, down the long corridor to their left.
“How’d he get there?” Kirsten asked. “I d
idn’t see him walk by.”
Virgil shrugged. “How should I know? Come on.”
They scooted down the hall and out the side door. Neither of them had coats, and the day hadn’t turned any warmer since the burial. Kirsten felt her teeth chatter. She held the top of her blouse closed.
Virgil looked off in the distance, his knitted eyebrows creating a cleft down his forehead.
“Rob was involved in Nguyen Trang’s death, wasn’t he? That was why you didn’t want me to read the disk. You were protecting him.”
Virgil nodded.
“He was wearing his black leather jacket that night,” Kirsten went on, “and he stole Olaf Maarten’s car.”
“Well … a black leather jacket. The one you’re thinking about is new. The old one was destroyed …” Virgil swallowed hard and said in a barely audible voice, “ … in the accident.”
Kirsten leaned in close. “What happened that night, Virgil? You know, don’t you?”
“Yes … I mean, some of it. Rob told me. We used to be buddies, but we … fell out. Anyway, he wanted to go for a joyride with someone who knew about cars—but he figured Nguyen would say no since he was so goody-goody. So he lied; managed to get Nguyen to come to Riverside Drive, where no one would see them. But all Nguyen wanted to do was talk about Gwen. They went driving, and Nguyen got angry, and …”
Virgil broke off. His eyes began to water.
“And what, Virgil?” Kirsten said gently. “Don’t keep it in. They’re both gone now. You can tell me everything.”
Virgil sniffed back the tears. “I guess they were arguing too much, and you know that road, it’s really bad in the rain, and … well, neither of them was wearing a seat belt, and when the car went over, Rob got thrown out. But Nguyen … wasn’t so lucky.”
“And Rob went to the hospital, didn’t he? And checked in under a fake name.”
Virgil looked surprised. “Yeah. How do you—”
“Was anyone else with him?”
“Not that I know of,” Virgil said. “I mean, he didn’t tell me everything.”
“Virgil, three people checked in to the E.R. that night with cuts and bruises—and with the fakest-sounding aliases you can imagine. Rob had two more people with him. He lied to you!”
“I—well—wow … I guess I didn’t know him as well as I thought.”
Kirsten exhaled. “I guess a lot of people didn’t.”
She let her head fall on Virgil’s shoulder. It felt stiff and cold.
Gwen was absent from driver’s ed that day, but even so, the car felt even more miserable than usual.
No one wanted to talk. Mr. Busk barked out his commands in a monotone. When she wasn’t driving, Sara stared out the window, listening to a Walkman. Even Maria was grim and quiet.
Kirsten couldn’t stop thinking about Nguyen. What did he want? It couldn’t be revenge; Rob was already dead. But there was something else, she was sure of it.
Kirsten’s drive was pretty good, all things considered. She was last, and she managed to park the car in the lot without any trouble.
As she applied the parking brake, Sara and Maria scooted out of the backseat.
“Nice job, Kirsten,” Mr. Busk said. “I wish I had you for a few more classes. You’re so close to being ready.” He shook his head sadly.
“But … you don’t think I am ready.”
“Well, you’ll do all right on the written part, I’m sure, but …” He gazed out the window, then at his watch. “Do you have any extra-curriculars today?”
“No.”
“Hmmmm. You see that car over there?”
Kirsten looked out the window at an old, shiny, black Chevy parked near the auto shop. “That one?”
“It used to belong to a friend of mine who lived in New York City. Instead of junking it, he gave it to us. Anyway, we fixed it up in shop and I was going to test-drive it myself. But maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll let you do it.”
“Me—now? Why?”
“I’m offering you some extra time. My own time. I know I’m not the most considerate guy, but I see how hard you’ve been working—and I owe you something after I yelled at you yesterday.” He shrugged. “But, hey, I know it’s an unfamiliar car and if you don’t want to—”
“That’s okay!” Kirsten cut in. “I’ll do it.”
So close to being ready. Kirsten thought she was hearing things. Not long ago Mr. Busk had told her she was going to flunk. Had she really gotten better? Was he kidding?
Was he drunk? Kirsten glanced at him as he walked to the Chevy. He wasn’t weaving, but you never knew.
As Kirsten got out, she spotted Maria chatting with Virgil in the driveway. She caught Maria’s attention and waved her arm, as if to say, “You go ahead.”
Then she opened the door of the Chevy and thought she would barf.
The ashtray was spilling over with cigarette butts. An ancient paper cup, half filled with stale coffee, was perched on the windshield next to three-quarters of a ham-and-cheese sandwich reeking of rancid mustard.
“Uh, let me get rid of the junk,” Mr. Busk said sheepishly.
Kirsten waited as he quickly emptied the garbage from the car, then went over the surfaces with a rag and cleaning fluid.
Before she stepped in, she picked up a Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar that was lying on top of a red, metal, antitheft steering-wheel bar on the floor.
As Kirsten tossed the calendar in the back, Mr. Busk explained, “That Club belonged to the guy who owned this before. He had everything in this car—alarm, hood lock, the works.”
Kirsten sat in the driver’s seat and looked at all the switches and red lights that had been attached to the dashboard. Typical New York City car, armed against theft—complete with a key-operated ignition shutoff exactly like her dad’s. When you pushed in the button, the car could not be started. This car’s button was under the glove compartment, though—her dad’s had been near the steering column.
“Okay, ready when you are, Kirsten,” Mr. Busk said.
Kirsten started up and drove out of the lot. This car had a lot more power than the driver’s ed cars she’d been used to, and she liked the feel of it.
“Good start. Okay, turn left.”
Mr. Busk guided her through the nearby side streets, practicing K-turns, starting and stopping, signaling, parallel parking.
Then they went to Sunrise Highway, which ran alongside the commuter train tracks. There, on long stretches of uninterrupted highway, Kirsten practiced lane changing and passing.
“Kirsten, I am shocked,” Mr. Busk said while they were stopped at a light. “I never thought you’d make it. But you know what? I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I’m going to pass you.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Now,” he said, peering over her head to the left, “turn left and go over the train tracks.”
Kirsten was ready to burst. After the last two horrific days, this was the best news she’d heard. She couldn’t help smiling as she made the turn.
In the distance, she heard a train approaching.
“Okay, the gate’s open, Kirsten. That train isn’t as close as it seems. What do you do?”
Kirsten had made the turn. She was crossing the oncoming-car-traffic lanes, where the cars were stopped for a red light. A few yards beyond Sunrise, the tracks crossed the road. She had room enough to stop and wait.
Honnnnk!
She saw a car in her rearview mirror, so close she could swear it was touching.
“Ignore that jerk,” Mr. Busk said. “Just go over the tracks, carefully and slowly.”
Kirsten put her foot on the brakes. As she approached the tracks, the car slowed way down. The train was getting louder now, but Mr. Busk didn’t seem too concerned.
The car behind her whizzed by on the right, careening over the tracks. “To you, too, buddy!” the driver shouted to Mr. Busk as he passed, then swerved to cut Kirsten off, tossing off an obscene gesture.
Kirsten jammed
on the brake. She gave Mr. Busk a quick glance. His right hand was out the window.
Kirsten looked ahead. She stepped on the gas but the car didn’t move. She checked the gear shift and the emergency brake, and gassed it again.
The engine made a gagging noise, then stopped.
Clack … clack … clack …
Kirsten looked to the left. She could see the train now.
Ca-chunk.
The gate in front of her slammed down. Red lights flashed. No other cars were at the intersection.
“Mr. Busk?”
He was running. Bailing out. Slamming the door behind him and racing away. His window, which had been open a moment before, was closed.
Kirsten grabbed the handle of her door. It was locked. She felt around for the lock, but it was electronic. She needed battery power.
She turned the key. Nothing.
She dove across the seat and pulled the handle of Mr. Busk’s door.
He had locked it!
HOOOONNNNNNNNK!
The train’s horn blasted. Its brakes sounded like a chorus of shrieking witches. The front gleamed silver, growing, filling her window.
Desperately Kirsten looked for an escape. Her eyes passed across the ignition shutoff switch under the glove compartment.
It had been pressed in.
And Mr. Busk had the keys.
Kirsten was trapped.
Chapter 23
KIRSTEN BANGED ON THE window, the windshield. She screamed. She lay on her back and tried to kick out the side window.
She pushed against the floor with her hand to brace herself for a stronger kick.
Her fingers wrapped around the Club.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—
The train’s brakes let out a deafening shriek.
She sat up. She lifted the Club to her shoulder and swung.
It thudded dully against the passenger-side window.
With a cry of desperation, she swung again.
CRAAASSSSSHHHH!
The window shattered. Kirsten dived through it. She heard a ripping noise. She landed on her shoulder and rolled away from the car. Scrambling to her feet, she ran.
She got as far as a scrubby hedge beyond the north side of the tracks when the train hit.
The noise shook the ground. The car crumpled like a toy and shot forward. In a sickening scream of scraping metal, the snub nose of the locomotive pushed the black wreckage along the tracks.
Driver's Dead Page 10
