by Jim Krieg
I looked up just once. He must’ve sensed my stare because, just for a minute, Volger stopped grinning and high-fiving everyone around him and our eyes met. The student council grimace vanished from his face.
Then he smiled at me. Or tried to, anyway. I understood what that smile was intended to say. It was meant to be a victory smile. It was supposed to say, “I won, I beat you, and there’s nothing you can do to me.”
But it took just a moment too long to arrive. He hesitated, and in that second, I saw his fear. He knew I would never rest, never forget my mission, and certainly never give up. I would expose him. If it took all middle school, Marcus Volger was going down. The inevitability of his destruction hung in the air between us for a fraction of a second. Then it was gone, in his toothy show of bravado. But it was too late. I’d seen past the armor. I knew he was afraid.
Consummate actor that he was, Volger forced himself back into a fist-bumping mania as the adoring crowd carried him out of my line of sight. I opened my locker and fished out the books for that morning. There was an uneasy silence coming from Tommy and Verity as the chanting trailed off down the hall. They both probably wanted to say something comforting, something I didn’t need to hear, but there was no way for me to explain that to them.
Fortunately, another sound filled that quiet void, eliminating the need for their consolations.
Swish . . . swish . . . swish . . .
Solomon appeared, following the same route as Volger’s rowdy supporters. He was pushing a heavy-duty industrial push broom with thirty-six inches of polypropylene bristles. More than a match for the improvised confetti of the unauthorized marchers.
“Solomon,” I greeted him, gesturing to his pushcart against the wall. It was loaded down with rat traps. Clearly, he’d been collecting them. “Did you catch him?”
Solomon shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “Heard he helped you boys out. Figured that made him one of the good guys.”
I nodded to him. He nodded back. Seems to me we were always having a conversation without words.
Tommy, however, was a big fan of words.
“More work for you, huh, Mr. Groom?” he commented, looking at all the election day confetti. Solomon stopped sweeping for a moment and looked at us.
“Nothing wrong with a little hard work,” he said. “Makes life worth livin’.” Then, looking right at me, he added, “There’s a real satisfaction in leavin’ a place better than you found it. Wouldn’t you say, Griff?”
I half smiled, closed my locker, and headed toward class. Walking away, I called back to him, “I’ll let you know, Solomon. I’ll let you know.”
Tommy and Verity walked with me. I guess their classrooms were in the same direction. Don’t know for sure. It’s not like I memorized their schedules. As we made our way through the hall, I could feel the pressure building in Tommy to start talking again. He’d come a long way. A few weeks ago he wouldn’t have lasted this long. Anyway, he didn’t get the chance. Another voice echoed through the hallway behind us.
“Griff!”
We all turned in unison. It was Delane, surrounded by a few of the guys from the squad. He ignored whatever they were pestering him about and reached into his pocket.
“You left something in my office,” he shouted, fishing around for it. He took it out and chucked it across the hallway. It arced through the air in slow motion. Sorry, but it did. To me, anyway.
I casually put up my hand and felt it swat neatly into the palm.
My badge.
I made a point of not looking at it before clipping it onto my belt. It’s important to keep emotional scenes to a minimum, especially in public.
“Thanks,” I called back to him. My voice didn’t crack or anything. I said it like he was loaning me a pencil, then turned away and kept walking.
“I know you said you don’t want any kind of unnecessary publicity—” Verity started.
“You got that right,” I cut in. I could feel her smiling behind me.
“—But, if I were going to run an article about your triumphant return to duty—” she continued, ignoring me.
“Which you’re not,” I insisted.
“—What message, if any, would you have for the student body of Rampart Middle, Hallway Patrolman Carver?”
I don’t know why, but I actually thought about that for a moment. Then, even more strangely, I answered her.
“Walk carefully.”
Just then, the class bell rang and the hallway was its usual rush of chaos and noise. We continued on our way, my friends and I, like we had the entire school to ourselves.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author wishes to thank, among many others, Jim Rockford, Jane Marple, The Falcon, The Saint, The Hardy Boys, Sam Spade, Adrian Monk, Carl Kolchak, Virgil Tibbs, Joe Friday, Starsky, Hutch, Fred, Daphne, Shaggy, Scooby, Velma, Batman, Philip Marlowe, Charlie Chan, Hill & Renko, Riggs & Murtaugh, Holt & Steele, Jessica Fletcher, C. Auguste Dupin, Mister Moto, Father Brown, Lieutenant Columbo, Chief Inspector Japp, Dr. Quincy, and, obviously, Harry Callahan for their tireless pursuit of justice.
A special shout out to Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first consulting detective, whose exploits were read to me nightly by my father. I am forever indebted to my dad for handing down to me his lifelong love of books, mystery, adventure, and especially, always, a good joke.
I am thankful as well to my mother, a fine artist, for making our house, though it was surrounded by ice and snow, a place where creativity, warmth, beauty, and wit were always at home.
My book agent, Richard Abate, has my astonished thanks for bamboozling Razorbill into buying my book.
And speaking of Razorbill, my editor Jessica Rothenberg has been a patient and unflagging supporter, full of excellent suggestions and even greedily accepted praise.
Jessica Horowitz will forever have my thanks for her unbridled enthusiasm, which enabled Griff Carver to pry himself loose from my idea notebook.
I will always pick up the phone for Matt Wayne who, to my knowledge, never screened my calls despite my constant pleas for his wise council.
And just in case I never get to do another page of acknowledgements, thanks to my manager, the Great Andrew Deane, for sticking by me, to John Semper for teaching me how to rewrite, to Joel Surnow for showing me how to break a story, to Andy Breckman for explaining to me that the good time trumps everything.
And finally, my most heartfelt thanks to my family.
Due credit must go to my son Riley who, at age five, balked at the very notion of a cop without a squad car. “Does he at least have a bike? Does it have a siren?” I wish I had your imagination, son.
My little girl, Dalila, gave me constant encouragement in the form of impromptu dancing, unprovoked laughter, and the intelligent light that shines from her eyes.
And especially, unending gratitude to my beautiful and loving wife Susan, who is the central, unsolvable mystery of my life.
