Chasing the Skip

by Patterson, Janci

  Dad dropped the bag of food onto the table and flipped open a fold-out chair so he wouldn’t have to squeeze onto one of the benches beneath my bed. As he rustled out the remaining tacos the smell of hot sauce wafted up to me, making me want to pinch my nose.

  “I can’t believe you make me live in this thing,” I said. “I’m fifteen, and I don’t even have a door to close.”

  “Which means you can’t keep boys behind it,” Dad said. “It’s all part of my brilliant plan.”

  “But you’re a man. It’s indecent.”

  “It’s not indecent,” Dad said. “You’re my daughter.”

  “For, like, a week.”

  “No. You’ve always been my daughter. And you don’t need a door. You have a curtain.”

  I snorted and then swung the curtain closed on him, the metal rings screeching against the bar. Since he could still hear my every breath, it didn’t really make a difference.

  “Whatever,” I said through the curtain. “I should at least have a door to slam when you say crap like that.”

  “You can go slam the truck door if it makes you feel better.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  I thought I might have heard Dad chuckle, but I didn’t open the curtain to be sure. I knew I sounded like a brat, but whatever.

  I moved over and pulled open the curtains on the front window. Outside, rain coursed down the glass in little streams. I could see trees blowing a few feet away, the leaves obscured by the layers of water.

  “I was doing fine at Grandma’s, you know,” I said. “If I was still there, Mom could find me faster.”

  “Grandma didn’t think she could handle you.”

  In the three weeks I stayed with Grandma I’d done all her dishes and cooked for her six times. “It’s not like I’m so hard to live with,” I said.

  “I know. I guess I wore her out enough for both of us.”

  I’d heard Grandma say over the phone to Dad that she didn’t want to deal with having “another teenager under her roof,” as if I were a particularly nasty breed of dog, the kind she’d had once and sworn never to keep again.

  “Were you really that bad?” I pulled the curtains open a couple of inches, peering at him.

  He met my eyes. “I don’t know. I had a couple of girlfriends she didn’t like. And I didn’t go to college, which for her was about the end of the world.”

  “You also married a woman she didn’t like.”

  “Did your Grandma tell you that?”

  “Not out loud. But she doesn’t like it when Mom takes off and I stay with her.”

  “Grandma says your mom does that to you a lot.”

  “It’s not like she does it to me. I don’t mind her going out of town.”

  “Does she usually tell you where she’s going?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes, anyway.” I breathed in deep, trying to loosen up. Everything I said made Mom sound bad, when that wasn’t how it was. “Grandma doesn’t always like you so much either.”

  Dad laughed. “Is that so?”

  I pushed the curtains aside more. “Yeah, sometimes she’s mad at Mom, but other times she tells me that it’s her responsibility to look after me, since her son won’t do it.” I waved my finger in the air the way Grandma did when she got really worked up.

  Dad laughed again. “That sounds like her.”

  “I guess that responsibility stops after three weeks.”

  “Go easy on her. She’s sixty-eight years old.”

  “But so what if she doesn’t like stuff you did? Why take it out on me?”

  “I haven’t exactly been a model adult, either. I’ve disappointed her. She’s old and tired. I think she just doesn’t want to be a parent anymore.”

  “That doesn’t seem like a choice a parent can make, but I guess some people do anyway.” I knew that one would get him, since he’d given the same lecture to Alison this afternoon.

  Dad looked down at the table. “Your mom shouldn’t have done that to you, but I guess you understand parenting better than she does.”

  I balled my fists. He’d totally missed the point. “If you think she’s such a bad parent, where have you been?” I asked.

  Dad looked up at me, eyes wide. “Jeez, Ricki. I’m so sorry.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I knew now that Dad wasn’t some noble guy off saving the world. But a part of me still hoped there was something else to the story. Maybe he was secretly a criminal, and only Mom knew. Maybe he was just making all this bounty-hunting stuff look normal so I wouldn’t know he was working for some secret government agency. Anything but what I figured the truth must be: that he just hadn’t cared about me.

  The more we talked about it, the more likely I was to hear that truth. Better to avoid it.

  “Grandma wouldn’t have had to keep me for long. Mom always comes back.” I looked up at the wall at the head of my bed where I’d tacked a picture of Mom and me, and the note I’d found when I came home to our apartment from school for the last time.

  Off to California, it said. Take the bus to Grandma’s. I’ll pick you up soon. I knew that Mom had been talking to a guy, one she met on one of those dumb dating sites. She probably went to visit him. I just hadn’t thought she’d be gone so long. Just last month I’d read an article about a woman who’d been dating online and disappeared. They found her body in a Dumpster. I tried every day not to think about that.

  I should have let the subject drop then, but for some reason I couldn’t help picking at it like an itchy scab.

  “Must be a real bummer for you to be stuck with me all of a sudden,” I said.

  Dad smiled at me. “Not at all. I’m happy to have you along. I just wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess it can’t be helped.”

  “Seriously. I’m glad you’re here. It gives us a chance to really get to know each other.”

  That was the truth. Dad didn’t even have a TV in his trailer—just his audiobooks. No good distractions to turn my brain off.

  Dad looked at me like he expected me to say that I was happy to be with him as well, but I hurt too much, so I changed the subject.

  “So this Ian guy. What was his last name? Something to do with Shakespeare?”

  “Burnham. Like the woods in Macbeth.”

  “That’s the one with the witches, right?”

  Dad grinned. “Ah. She is cultured after all.”

  “‘Double, double toil and trouble.’ We had to recite that poem for Halloween in the sixth grade.”

  “Nice to hear they’re still teaching the classics.”

  “Even if I don’t know what that wood is?”

  “We can work on that. What’s your favorite book?” Dad asked.

  I squinted up at the ceiling. Didn’t have far to look, since it was barely two feet above my face.

  “I don’t like to read books.”

  “What?” I could see Dad peering at me over the bunk ledge. That was clearly the wrong answer.

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “How can that be? What was the last book you read?”

  “I read part of Ethan Frome.” That wasn’t a lie. I read those summaries online.

  “That’s for school. I mean before that.”

  “Well, we read The Catcher in the Rye. That was for class too, but I guess it was okay.”

  “What’d you like about it?”

  “I liked the way the kid had nowhere to go so he just wandered around making observations about the people he saw.” I kind of wanted to be like him, with my lists and my blog. Just not the crazy part.

  “See? So you do like to read.”

  “Well, I didn’t hate the book, but it’s not as if I read it for fun.”

  “Sounds like your mom. I couldn’t get her to pick up anything thicker than an issue of Cosmo.”

  I rolled over onto my elbows. “Not everything short is shallow. I read the news.”

&
nbsp; “Like, the newspaper?”

  “No. I get my news online.”

  “So you read about movie stars and things?”

  My hands itched toward my pillow—the only immediate throwable object. I scrunched it up instead. “No,” I said. “That’s soft news. I read the real stuff. About bombings and kidnappings and things. But I’m behind, since Grandma’s Internet connection didn’t work that well.”

  Dad looked impressed. “You read about politics?”

  “Sure. I can name all the members of the president’s cabinet. Can you?”

  Dad laughed. “I sure can’t. Good for you.”

  I could name them when I wasn’t put on the spot. If Dad actually asked me to, I’d probably forget one.

  “Anyway,” I said. “This Ian guy. What’d he do?”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Jumped bail. Just like the rest of them.”

  “But why was he arrested in the first place?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Cal needs him in court, so I’m going to bring him back. Why don’t you get your books out of the truck? Don’t think I didn’t notice that you still have work to do.”

  Dad gave me one of those looks that meant the conversation was over. It took all my self-control not to stick my tongue out at him. That would be a totally third-grade move, not really good for convincing him I could deal with hearing about skips.

  “I mean it,” he said. “Go.”

  I groaned but flipped my legs over the side of the bed and hopped down beside him, nearly whacking my hip on the edge of his folding chair.

  If Jamie was here, he’d know what to say to get around Dad. He was really good at talking people into things. He’d find some excuse for us to get out of here. Maybe he could steal his cousin’s motorcycle and drive to get me. Then I could ride behind him and breathe him in.

  I ran through the rain and hopped up into the cab with my books. The sun had disappeared behind thick clouds. It’d be setting soon anyway. If I went back into the trailer, Dad would see me working and know that he’d won. But if I stayed here, he’d wonder where I’d gone and then maybe come out here to check up on me. And I’d be sitting here doing my work like a good girl, and he’d feel sorry.

  But I didn’t start my homework. Instead I spread my notebook across my lap, writing in the dim light.

  Ian Burnham is seventeen, I wrote. And he’s already gotten arrested and jumped bail. I wondered where we’d find him and what he’d be like. Having someone close to my age around had to be an improvement over being alone with Dad—even if he was a skip.

  Denver, Colorado.

  Days since Mom left: 30.

  Distance from Salt Lake City, Utah: 543.16 miles.

  4

  The first place Dad was going to look for Ian Burnham was his house in Aurora.

  “Does Ian live with his parents?” I asked as we drove out, leaving the trailer behind. The morning sun shone off the road, and I blocked the glare with the newspaper Dad had bought me that morning in the trailer-park office. The thing was so big, I had to block the whole window with it if I wanted to read a story at the bottom of the page.

  But I had my own story brewing, and I wanted information.

  “His aunt has custody,” Dad said, “so he was living with her when he got arrested.”

  “Are his parents dead?”

  “His mom’s in rehab.”

  “Like, for alcohol?”

  “Like, for drugs.”

  “So why doesn’t he live with his dad, then?”

  “The dad’s in jail for domestic abuse.”

  Jeez. That meant Ian had it even worse than me, which at the moment was saying something. “His dad hit his mom?”

  “Not that I know of,” Dad said. “The parents are divorced. Looks like the dad was living with a girlfriend.”

  “So, how long has Ian been with his aunt?”

  Dad rolled his eyes at me. “I have his legal information, not his biography.” Dad patted his clipboard. “I also didn’t memorize it.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “No, you can’t.”

  Blah. I’d have to look at it when Dad wasn’t around. “Do you really think he’s still at his aunt’s place?”

  “She’s the one who paid Cal to post bail, so I’m guessing if he was still there, she’d have dragged him to court herself. But she’s out the bail money now, so she might be willing to give me an idea where he’s gone. Jilted relatives are my number one source of information. Skips have usually pissed off someone or other. All I have to do is find that person.”

  I picked up my notebook, but Dad looked meaningfully down at the uncracked book in my lap—Ethan Frome for my past-due report. I’d tried to bury it under the newspaper, but it was peeking out.

  I’d have to write that information down later. All this advice would make a great blog post—how to skip bail and not get caught. Don’t piss off your relatives. Don’t stay home. Don’t worry about your mail.

  I folded the newspaper, though it didn’t seem to crease back together the way it had come. I opened Ethan Frome and stared at the title page again. If I made it a goal to get through three pages a day, I might finish the book sometime this century. Today I could do the title page, the dedication, and the first page of the introduction. It was a half page even.

  “It’s hard to read in here,” I said.

  “You chose that when you refused to work back at the trailer.”

  “You could bring the trailer along. Then I could ride in back and work and still not have to be alone all day.”

  “That’s illegal. No one can be in the trailer while it’s moving.”

  “So what? It’s not like anyone would know.”

  “I’d know.”

  “Are you going to turn yourself in?”

  “I don’t break the law,” Dad said. “That’s the difference between me and the skips. Now get reading.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I just wanted to talk to you. That’s all.”

  Dad sighed. “Grand theft auto.”

  “What?”

  “Last night you asked me what Burnham did. He’s a car thief, up for grand theft auto.”

  I closed the book again. So much for goals. “And that’s why he’s dangerous? Because stealing cars sends you to jail for a long time?”

  “It’s not his first offense, and at seventeen he could get charged as an adult. That means prison time.”

  “So he probably won’t be hanging out at home.”

  “Right,” Dad said. “But it’s still the right place to start.”

  “Do you think he has a gun?”

  “No,” Dad said. “Most of the people I pick up aren’t packing. But I have to treat them all like they are, just in case.”

  “Why’d you take the job? Cal said you asked for this kind of thing.”

  Dad was quiet for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat. “Someone’s got to find him. Might as well be me.”

  “That’s not the real reason. It’s just what you’re telling me so I’ll drop it.”

  “See how well that’s working?”

  “Fine.”

  Dad looked over at me, still smiling. “You’re a hard woman to please. Just like your mom.”

  I opened my mouth to complain, but Dad waved a hand at me. “Don’t start. That wasn’t an insult. There’s nothing wrong with arguing, even if it does make my life more difficult. At least it means you’re thinking.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “Do you think we’ll get in a car chase?”

  “You think that would be fun?”

  “I don’t know. I was wondering if you get in a lot of chases.”

  “Foot chases, yes. Car chases, no.”

  “But what if your skip jumps in a car and drives away?”

  “Then I keep tailing him. I’ll even follow him at slow speeds. But high-speed chases hurt bystanders more often than not. Even if they don’t, a lot of times the damages cost more than the bounty was w
orth.”

  “So, do a lot of skips get away?”

  Dad wobbled his head from side to side. “Eh,” he said. “I probably bring in eight out of ten. Some of them get picked up by law enforcement before I get the chance. Some run out of the country, and I can’t follow them then.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s against the law.”

  Right. I looked out the window, watching the road rush away beneath us. Tangled weeds on the shoulder slid by in a blur.

  “So you’re really good at finding people, then.”

  “Not bad. That’s why Cal gives me so much work.”

  I turned and looked at him. “So are you looking for Mom?”

  “No,” he said. He didn’t even take a moment to think about it.

  “Why not?” I asked. “If you found Mom, then you wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore. You could have the whole trailer all to yourself.”

  “I don’t mind dealing with you. Like I said last night, it’s nice to have a chance to get to know you.”

  I scrunched down in my seat and rested my feet on the dash. “That’s not the point,” I said. “She’s never been gone this long before. What if something happened to her?”

  I was pretty sure Mom was fine—she always scraped through. And the fact that kidnappings and murders made the news also meant they were rare. But the nagging thoughts in the back of my mind were really starting to bug me. I just wanted to find her so I could stop wondering.

  “Look,” Dad said, “you know how I have to sign paperwork with a bail bondsman before I go looking for a skip?”

  “So?”

  Dad gave me a warning look. “That’s because people who take bail bonds sign away their constitutional rights to the bondsman. They give him the right to track them down and arrest them if they don’t show up in court, and then he signs that right over to me so I can find them for him.”

  “So what?”

  “So your mom hasn’t signed away her rights to me, or anyone I work for. I’m not authorized to go looking for her, which means I have no right to bring her back.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t look for Mom on the side.”

  “You know how strong willed your mother is. You’re just like her. Trying to drag her back here before she’s ready would only cause more trouble for all of us. She’s got a right not to be found.”