I don’t say anything. I don’t know the last time DJ offered to do anything for his old man.
“Come on!” We dash to the bus stop and manage to climb aboard before the driver closes the doors.
I collapse in a seat behind a mother whose snotty baby is climbing all over her. DJ drops down beside me. “You figured out the route?”
“Two buses,” I tell him. “I MapQuested it. Thought about what we’re going to do when we get there, Sherlock?”
“Hey, this is your gig, man. But I say we check things out. Get ourselves noticed.”
Two girls our age get on the bus. They are wearing almost identical clothes, tight jeans and skinny tops. They’re both talking loudly on cell phones. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were yakking to each other.
DJ leers at them.
The girls ignore him as they sidle past the woman’s baby buggy. “So, like, I said if she was going to keep it up, she could think again,” says the one in the pink shirt.
“I told you I’d be home by six…I’ll be home by six,” says the other, obviously to her mother. Or father.
I open my cell. No messages. I’m just about to pocket it again, when it rings. Home phone. I debate whether to answer it. Then hit Talk. Mom’s mad enough at me already. “Yeah?”
“I know where you’re going,” says Leah. “I’m going to tell Mom.”
I’ve told her not to call me on my cell. “Where am I going, smarty pants?” I make a face at DJ.
He mouths, “The brat?”
I nod. “We’re going to Home Depot for DJ’s dad,” I tell Leah.
“You’re going to meet that man. I heard you and DJ talking. I’ll tell Mom.”
“I told you. We’re going to the mall. Want me to bring you something?” I ask. “A treat?”
DJ rolls his eyes at me and turns in his seat to ogle the girls, who are now too busy texting to notice him.
“I want that new Miley Cyrus cd,” says Leah.
“I mean candy, idiot. Something like that. Look. I gotta go.”
“I’ll tell.”
“I’ll bring pizza. How about we have pizza for supper?” I ask.
She knows when she’s being bribed. “You’re not going to Home Depot, are you?”
“See you later.” I hang up.
“She onto you?” DJ asks.
“Probably.” I shrug. I hope Leah keeps her mouth shut, pizza or no pizza. I can imagine what Mom will say if she finds out we’re stalking the guy who’s stalking us.
But this isn’t stalking. It’s a stakeout.
Even if I have no idea what to do when we got there.
Chapter Eleven
Bryan Klausen lives in an ordinary house. A blue Ford pickup is parked outside. A green hose is curved under one tire. The driveway is shiny wet. A bucket sits in the middle of a flower bed full of orange flowers. Maybe he’s been washing bikes with his kids.
“So, the plan?” asks DJ.
I am looking at the basketball hoop attached to the garage wall. There’s one just like it outside our house. It was there when we moved in. I’ve played there with my friends, but my dad would no more shoot hoops than he’d take ballet classes.
I imagine Bryan Klausen playing basketball with his kids. Maybe right now they are inside playing a board game together.
I bet Bryan Klausen doesn’t spend hours in his dusty study, poring over economic reports. I bet he doesn’t look up, dazed and frowning, when someone calls him to supper, asks for a ride or for help hooking up a new stereo.
I’m about to tell DJ that we should split when the front door opens.
I grab his arm and spin him around so we’re facing back up the road.
“Hey! What’s up?” he says.
“He might see us.”
“I thought that was the point.” He pulls out of my grip and turns back. “Looks like he’s going jogging.”
All I see is a guy in shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt moving at quite a clip.
“Come on. But not too close,” says DJ. He takes off after the guy, who may or may not be Bryan Klausen. “Catch me if you can,” he taunts me.
It doesn’t take me long.
The jogger ahead has a nice smooth stride. But we’ve not gone half a block before DJ is panting. He runs like a windmill, his legs and arms flailing around. I’m not much better, but I know to keep my arms close to my sides.
The guy we’re following—my dad’s killer—jogs in place while he waits for a truck to pass at the intersection. Then he crosses without missing a beat.
“Guy’s. Wearing. An iPod,” pants DJ. His elbow jabs me as I move closer to hear.
“So?” I ask.
“He. Won’t. Know. We’re. Behind him. Can’t hear.” When he stops and leans back with his fists on his hips, I see sweat on DJ’s brow. “I can’t keep up,” he says between breaths. “In fact, I may be having a heart attack.”
“You’re out of shape.” I don’t tell him that the stitch in my side feels like someone’s shoved a knife in there. I pretend I’m not as out of breath as he is.
I scan the street. The guy’s disappeared. “Crap.”
“What?” When DJ looks up, his face is red.
“We lost him,” I say.
“Good. I don’t think I could keep that up much longer. Let’s grab something to eat and wait to see if he comes back this way.”
We’ve stopped in front of a Subway. Inside, DJ orders a meatball footlong. I grab a cookie and a pop. We sit at the counter against the window, looking outside.
“Did you see Casino Royale?” A piece of onion sticks out of DJ’s mouth as he munches. The sub’s down to six inches already.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “We saw it together.”
“Was that a stuntman, do you think?” he asks. “The opening sequence? Or Daniel Whatzzit himself?”
“I read about it somewhere. All that running, jumping. It’s got a name. A French word. Some French guy invented it. Almost like a martial art.”
“Think there’s someplace to learn it?” asks DJ. He laughs. “We might need it, if we keep checking out your guy.” He crams the last of his sandwich into his mouth and crumples up the paper.
“He’s just jogging, for crying out loud.”
“He got away from you though. Didn’t he?”
I could give him a smart-ass answer to that. But what’s the point?
“What say we head back to his house and hang out across the street?” DJ asks. “He’ll come back.”
“Then what?”
“How ’bout this?” he asks. He spins his stool as he stands up. “How about a sign of some kind. We’ll write on his driveway. Or leave a note stuck under his windshield. Something like…What could we say?”
“We know who you are?” I suggest.
“How about, You are being watched? That should spook him.”
We’re outside when the jogger— Bryan Klausen—sprints by. I know it’s him.
He’s holding a newspaper under one arm and a plastic Safeway bag in his other hand. They don’t seem to slow him down.
DJ pulls me back against the storefront. Once the guy’s a little way ahead, DJ starts running.
I follow. But there’s no rush. We know where he’s going.
Chapter Twelve
It’s hard to be inconspicuous staking out the stalker’s house. We’re sitting on the ground, leaning against a short wall across the street. A couple of leaves drift down from the tree overhead.
The blue pickup truck is still in the driveway. The bucket is still in the flower bed. No one has picked up the hose.
I try to get comfortable on the hard ground and imagine what might be going on inside Bryan Klausen’s house. Beside me, DJ throws his hacky sack in the air over and over.
I try to remember what the papers said about Klausen. In my head I run through everything I can recall from the article.
Newspapers think they’re telling you the whole story. But it’s just information that isn’t even in
teresting. Even when it’s stuck together to make a story, they’re bound to miss what really went on.
The papers didn’t mention that my dad probably wasn’t looking where he was going when he stepped out into traffic. There was no mention of the faraway look on his face when he was thinking about financial forecasts. He would disappear into his thoughts about numbers while he was eating dinner or driving the car—or jogging.
The newspaper article said nothing about the maple syrup Leah insisted she have on her pancakes, even though Mom said she should make do with jam.
Was it Leah’s fault that Dad dashed out of the house to pick up syrup for her French toast? Was it Mom’s fault for insisting that Dad be responsible for one meal a week? Or that all he ever made were pancakes? Was it my fault for sleeping late and not doing the errand instead of Dad? I’d forgotten to pick up maple syrup at the store the week before—even though it was on the list.
Was it Bryan Klausen’s fault for being on the same road, headed to see his own dad, when my father ran out between two cars without looking?
I reach out and grab the hacky sack midair. “This is stupid.” I stand up and start walking.
DJ dashes after me. “What’s stupid?”
“This stakeout, or whatever you call it.
“You thought it was a good idea last night. Give me back that sack.”
“Only if you keep it in your pocket.” I toss it to him as I get up to leave. I can’t get away from this house fast enough.
He’s having a hard time keeping up with me. “What’s the hurry? Where are you going now? I thought…”
“Forget it. Just forget it,” I say. I jog around the next corner and cross the street with DJ on my heels.
“Slow down, man. Did we come all this way just to have a sub and stare at a guy’s house?”
I stop and turn to face him. “I’m going home.” It’s probably all in my head anyway. “You coming or not?” I ask.
“I wish you’d make up your mind,” DJ says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “So, you coming with me to Home Depot? It’s on the way.”
We spend most of the afternoon at DJ’s house, oiling everything in sight, whether it needs it or not.
Chapter Thirteen
Monday is Mom’s day off. She lets me take the car to school on the condition that I pick up Leah on the way home.
Neither of us has mentioned my tantrum on the driveway the other day.
With fifteen minutes to kill before Leah’s school lets out, I pull into the curb and text DJ to see if he’s home yet. I laugh when he texts back, GTG GIMS. GIMS is DJ’s code for Girl in My Sights. And his answer to my question, Stacie?, is just another GTG.
As I close my phone and lean over to pull my binder from the backseat, I see a guy walking up and down the sidewalk. He looks like just an ordinary guy from where I’m sitting.
But everyone knows stalkers look like regular people.
The cluster of moms with baby buggies watches him for a minute, then ignores him.
I open my homework. Without Dad’s help, my grades in math and science are bottoming out. Mom won’t let me drop Math 11, even though I swear I have no plans to be a doctor or a scientist. Or an economist.
When I look up from my trig questions, the same guy is still pacing in front of the school, his head down. The gang of mothers is bigger now. The crosswalk lady is talking to them, her Stop sign propped on the sidewalk beside her.
I close my binder and throw it in the back of the car. I roll the window down to get a closer look.
With all the newspaper stories about predators around school grounds, why aren’t these parents paying attention? What good is that woman in her stupid yellow uniform if she’s not doing her job? Doesn’t anyone care who’s lurking around the school waiting for kids to come out so they can grab one?
How’s that for paranoia?
The guy looks around, then wanders across the grass toward a classroom window.
Leah’s classroom.
I feel as if a cold hand has grabbed the back of my neck. I belt out of the car and charge after him.
He ducks around the corner toward the side door.
I knew I should have confronted the guy when I had the chance.
An echoey mix of footsteps and voices drifts out of the building. Does Leah have gym last class on Mondays? Or Tuesdays? I can’t think straight.
The guy is almost at the side door now. I’m 90 percent sure this is Bryan Klausen. Maybe 80 percent. It’s that 10-or 20-percent chance of being wrong that makes me hesitate. Some math is not so hard to figure out.
As the man takes the first step that leads to the gym, the school buzzer goes. Within seconds, the doors are flung open and a crowd of kids flood the playground.
I scan their faces looking for Leah, at the same time trying to keep my eye on the guy.
“Hi, Cam.” It’s Selena. “Leah fell off the bars, but she’s okay—”
I grab her. “Where is she?”
“That hurts!” Selena pulls away and rubs her shoulder. “I was just saying…”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.” I reach out to touch where I grabbed her, but she trots off. “I gotta go. I have piano. Tell Leah I’ll see her tomorrow.” She looks at me sideways as she goes, as if she’s scared of me suddenly.
I clench my teeth in frustration as I watch to check that her mom’s there to meet her. Then I turn to look for my sister. And the stalker, the man who might not be the stalker.
He is gone.
I feel panicky breath rise in my chest. Is he inside? Did he get to her first? “Leah!”
A huddle of kids step out of my way as I charge into the building. I look like a crazy person as I head down the hallway, past the library, the girls’ washroom and the grade-six room.
“Leah!” I yell as I dash past empty classrooms.
A teacher sticks his head out of a doorway. Mr. Phillips. “Cameron Gifford, isn’t it?”
I skid to a stop and feel the sweat prickle my neck.
“It’s been a while. Looking for Leah, I hear.” He smiles. “I did enjoy having her in my class last year.” As opposed to the pain I was, I expect he’s thinking. “Do you and Derek still pal around?” he asks.
“DJ and I hang out a bit.” I don’t have time for this. “Have you seen Leah?”
“In the health office. Just a bump, I think. She said you’d be here to pick her up.”
I dash off. I don’t answer when he calls after me to ask how Mom is doing.
Leah is sitting on the examination table, kicking her feet against it. “Wanna see my bump?” she asks.
“Was there a guy here?”
“What guy? Ms. Lonsdale said to wait here. She’ll be right back. You have to sign something. Wanna see my bump?” she asks again.
There’s no bump that I can see. But her forehead is sweaty.
I hug her.
She pulls away. “What’s that for?” she asks.
I drop my arms. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”
“Course I’m safe. But I did climb up as far as the sixth rung on the wall bars. It was a long way to fall. Can we go home?”
“You said we had to wait for Ms. Lonsdale.”
I look around the room. Everything seems so calm. So normal. But my breath is burning my throat, and my skin is clammy with fear.
Something’s not right.
I check the hallway. Leah’s teacher is coming my way, holding a clipboard. Walking in the other direction is a guy holding hands with two kids, one on each side. This almost looks normal too.
But it could be the guy from outside. I clench my teeth in frustration.
“Are there any kids called Klausen in your school?” I ask Leah.
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of them.” She’s peering at the nutrition chart on the wall. “Can we go home now? Have you got Mom’s car?”
I feel my breath slowing. My blood is cooling as I watch Ms. Lonsdale smooth my sister’s hair across her
forehead. “You can go home when Cam has signed this form.” She hands me the clipboard and a pen. “This says that we’re releasing Leah into your care, and you will monitor her condition.” She smiles at me.
I sign the paperwork with a hand that is almost steady. I pass it back.
When I reach out to take Leah’s hand, she steps aside. “I’m not a baby, you know.”
Her teacher smiles at me and pats Leah on the shoulder. “Off you go. You’ll survive.”
“Bye, Ms. Lonsdale.” Leah skips down the hall ahead of me.
I keep my eyes open as we head back outside. I look around as we get into the car. The group of mothers has broken up. The schoolyard is almost empty.
There’s no sign of the suspicious-looking guy.
I’m not sure now that there was anything to be suspicious about. Except that any minute I might lose my mind. One more thing for my family to deal with.
I lean my head against the steering wheel and close my eyes.
“Cam?” Leah asks.
“What?’
“Can we stop at Timmy’s for a donut?”
I turn to look at her.
“Can we?” she says.
I want to reach out and touch her. Hug her. Keep her safe forever.
But I just say, “Yes. Then I’m dropping you off at home. There’s something I have to do.”
Chapter Fourteen
I sit in the car across from Klausen’s house and bite my lip as I dial my cell, hoping DJ will pick up.
I’m calm now, calmer than I’ve been for days. Now I know what to do. And I’m the only one who can do it.
When DJ answers, I tell him, “I’m going to talk to the guy before I lose my mind.”
“Where are you?”
“Outside his house.”
“You’re not going to bail like you did last time?”
“Not a chance.” I can’t see movement at Klausen’s house. “No way. I’m up for this,” I say. But I’m not sure I am up for it.
“You okay going in there alone?”
“You make it sound like I’m advancing on Baghdad,” I tell him. “Didn’t you hear me say I want to do this?”
I don’t know what I want. Yes, I do. I want the movie of my life to rewind. I want it to stop on that frame with me, my mom and dad and my sister sitting around the kitchen table stabbing pancakes with our forks.
Beyond Repair Page 4
