Gil began by running again.
“I talked to Coach,” he said. “He says I need to get back into the saddle.”
His father nodded, approving. Pleased, too, that Gil had resumed showering and shaving.
“The Berkshire trip is in three weeks,” Gil added.
Every year, Coach organized a team trip to the Berkshire Mountains for the last week of summer vacation. He worked out a deal with a small college to lease a floor in a dorm and to allow team members to use the athletic facilities. They would arrive on Tuesday and leave after lunch on Friday. There, they would run the hilly terrain around campus, take advantage of the exercise equipment and, in their free time, have fun.
“I’m glad you’re going,” Mom said. “A change of air will be good for you.”
Gil wasn’t going, at least not on the organized trip. He had never talked to Coach. He wouldn’t board the team bus. The Berkshire trip was his cover to escape Green Valley.
Gil forged forms, using last year’s as models. He had his mom take him for a sports physical at the family doctor, as she did every year. He saved every penny he could, hiding the cash with his passport. He used the library computer rather than the one at home to track down youth hostels in Montreal so that his parents wouldn’t find any record of his searches. His phone had a GPS keyed into his parents’ phones, so they’d know where he was. He allowed the battery to drain. Two days before his departure, he announced that it was dead.
“I was going to upgrade anyway,” his father told him. “A new phone will arrive in a few days.”
“I may have an old one that still works,” his mom said. “It’s only good for calls and texts. But you can bring it with you.”
At least this one didn’t have a GPS. He stuffed it at the bottom of his duffel, determined not to use it.
The night before his departure, he told his parents goodbye. “I’m being picked up at five a.m.”
“Run well, honey,” his mother said. “And have fun.” He allowed her to kiss him on the cheek.
Gil tiptoed out at four. He caught a train into the city and a bus north.
Although he was somewhat anxious at first, the ride proved uneventful. No one asked him why he was on a bus by himself, heading north. It had been weeks since Gil had had time to himself, to think about something other than his plans. Finally, he was on his way to Enko’s birthplace. To where he was buried. To say goodbye.
He pushed these last thoughts aside. He needed to hold it together. There were still hundreds of miles to travel, a border to cross, people to deal with before he reached his destination.
Gil ate a sandwich he had packed for lunch, and took a brisk walk when the bus stopped for forty-five minutes at a diner outside of Albany. They traveled farther north, and he watched the Adirondacks rise around him, then dwindle and turn into rolling ground in the Lake Champlain Valley. As the distance grew between him and home, a feeling of lightness grew as well. Yes, he had hard things to do. But away from Green Valley he could be himself, without worrying about what people knew of his past. It gave him a sense of freedom. He was in charge of himself, truly, for the first time.
At the border, the Canadian customs officer was all business.
“Passport?” she asked from across the counter.
Gil handed her the small, three-year-old blue booklet with the photo where he still looked like a little kid.
She flipped the pages and punched something into the computer.
“Traveling alone?”
“Yes.”
At seventeen, he was still a minor, so the question was a natural one—one he had expected. He had rehearsed a whole story about visiting a cousin who was meeting him at the bus station. But she didn’t ask.
“Destination?”
“Montreal.”
“For how long?”
“Two weeks,” he said.
He hadn’t decided how long he planned to stay. But that answer would have gotten him in trouble, and you didn’t ever want to get in trouble with the border police.
“Are you bringing any presents with you?”
The ring on his left hand felt heavy. Gil shook his head.
“Have a nice stay,” the officer said.
The older woman behind him stepped up to the counter, her wallet in hand, blue passport on top of it. Gil returned to the bus. He noticed another customs officer leading a dog away from the baggage compartment.
Gil straightened. He didn’t like this feeling of being inspected, having every move watched. He knew the customs officials were just doing their job—and they had been polite and professional. But Gil didn’t breathe easy until the bus pulled away from the border station.
“Bienvenu au Québec,” a sign announced.
He glanced back through the window. No one was following. No alarm had been raised. He had left Connecticut behind.
He corrected himself. He had left the United States behind.
He settled back into his seat. He had done it! If only Enko were there to celebrate with him. He’d have laughed at all the steps Gil had taken to pull this off.
Gil took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. He exhaled. Time to concentrate on his itinerary.
They were to arrive in Montreal in the early evening. He had packed enough food for tonight, and tomorrow he’d track down Enko’s grave. But what then? He had never really gotten past that thought. He couldn’t return home. It was too painful. His one goal was to find Enko. But a grave … That was just a piece of dirt with Enko, dead, buried under it. That would be painful, too. He wanted more than that. He wanted Enko.
He stared out the window, watching the flat farmland pass by. Without thinking, he fingered the garnet on his finger.
The ring.
An immortal man had made this ring. He had cheated death. Enko had told him so. Maybe he’d know how to bring Enko back!
Yes.
He’d track the man down. But where?
Gil thought back to the story Enko had told him. It had taken place in an old farming village, about a hundred miles north of Montreal. That’s what the legend said. North. That was where Gil needed to go.
He shut his eyes.
North.
He had a goal.
The night had been difficult.
Gil had planned to sleep on Mount Royal, in the center of the city, just as he had on Overhang Rock numerous times. On the Rock all he needed was a blanket. He knew the crevices, the bushes, the trees, all the shelters he could use—protection from the morning dew and stray dogs. He had brought Jennifer Royland there after the Junior Prom. He had camped there with Enko, also. But Gil shut down that memory.
Mount Royal wasn’t anything like Overhang Rock.
A park covered most of it, with a road, paved paths, parking lots, trails, benches, park buildings and a huge, lit-up cross right at the top. Gil had aimed for the cross, thinking it would be a safe place to spend the night.
Stupid.
The area was crawling with lovers and bums. He interrupted two men under one bush, a reeking drunk in a ditch and what he thought was a prostitute and her john behind some trees. A mounted police officer patrolled the main path. Gil reached a large overlook with a glittering view of the St. Lawrence River and decided to scramble down. A row of buildings abutted the last big stand of trees below. He aimed for an apartment building surrounded by shrubbery and found a spot to curl up in along its side.
He slid into his sleeping bag and tucked his duffel under his head. Hiding in the city was going to be harder than he thought. He had intended to camp in the city’s parks while the weather was good, saving what money he had for hostels when the need arose. Who knew there’d be so many people?
Sirens howled. Trucks rumbled. The occasional pedestrian walked by. He slept fitfully. He woke to a cat hissing at him.
Gil hissed back, and the orange cat ran away.
The sky still sported its morning grays—barely light. He brushed dirt off the bags. Where to?
/>
He needed to find Enko’s grave—track down the cemetery and the plot. Then he’d head north. That was where he’d find the immortal man. But to get to the cemetery, and then to head north, he’d need transportation.
He checked the money pouch he kept hidden in his shirt—after the train and bus tickets, he had a little more than two hundred and fifty American dollars. His first priority, he realized, was to exchange it for Canadian currency. Making purchases with American dollars was only going to draw attention to himself.
He thought back to the last time he had visited Canada—it had been several years ago, with his parents. They had stayed at a resort that accepted U.S. bills at a premium. But his parents had used the ATM.
“It’s so much easier,” Mom had said.
Gil had misunderstood at first. “You have a Canadian bank account?”
“No,” Dad explained. “But banks will exchange cash for you. And Canadian ATMs will do the exchange straight from our U.S. accounts.”
Well. The bank card his parents had given him wasn’t an option. It was keyed to their accounts. They’d be able to track him down through the bank—Dad routinely checked their balances online, and the locations of withdrawals were always listed. Gil couldn’t risk it. But exchanging his cash at a bank would work.
He glanced at the sky. What time was it? He pulled his mom’s old cell phone from the duffel and turned it on. Five-fifteen. No bank was open at this hour. The icon for messages flashed. For a split second he forgot and thought Enko had texted him. He shook his head. Stupid. He must be more tired than he realized. But who had called him? He clicked through.
Good luck @ training. I’ll pick you up Fri pm. Love Mom
Of course. Only his parents knew this number. He turned off the phone. Mom wasn’t expecting a response. But the message reminded him: he had three days before they discovered he had disappeared. He’d better get himself organized.
A gray tabby spat at him. A black-and-white tom followed her. All these cats! Where did they come from?
Gil scratched himself. He should get out of here anyway, before people noticed him. He dug out his comb and flattened his blond mop. There wasn’t much he could do about the stubble around his chin—not until he found a restroom. He fished out his spare jeans and a clean tee, checked to make sure no one could see him and quickly changed into them.
When he stepped out from behind the bushes, he thought he looked okay—a bit rumpled, but no more than any other teenager. He immediately realized why there were so many cats.
The bushes abutted an alley that separated a row of apartments at the edge of the mountain and a row of commercial buildings facing another street. At the rear of one of the buildings, dishes of half-eaten food littered the concrete next to a Dumpster. A dozen cats swarmed around the food. A short man in a dirty white T-shirt, his belly protruding under a filthy apron, stepped out of a door and lit a cigarette. The cats ignored him. He stacked a couple of the empty dishes to take inside, straightened and noticed Gil.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?” he demanded.
Gil froze. Damn. He should have stayed hidden.
“I don’t speak—”
“American,” the man said in English. He spat. “What are you doing here?”
Gil hesitated. He needed to be faster on the uptake. But the man’s eyes softened.
“Lost, eh?”
That was almost too easy. Gil nodded. He could make pity work for him.
The man threw the lit cigarette toward the cats. “Come with me.” He stepped back into the building.
For a moment, Gil wondered whether he should walk the other way. He glanced up at Mount Royal and the darkened windows of the buildings all around. He didn’t have anywhere else to go. The man seemed friendly enough. And maybe Gil would find a restroom. He entered the rear of a diner.
The man had placed the cats’ dishes into a suds-filled sink and was rinsing his hands under running water.
“I’m Tony,” he said. “What are you called?”
“Gil.”
“Take a seat.” He waved to the stools by a long counter.
Gil sat on the one closest to the kitchen. The diner was still dark, but a woman stood just inside the kitchen door, her hair under a net, chopping up a huge pile of peeled potatoes. She squinted at Gil as he sat down.
“Another stray?” she asked Tony.
“Just a kid,” Tony said. “Here,” he added, pushing a cardboard cup filled with coffee toward Gil, “and don’t worry about Renée. She likes to be grumpy.”
“Thank you,” Gil said.
He reached for his pouch, figuring Tony would probably take an American bill. Tony raised his hands.
“On me,” he said.
Tony plopped a gallon of milk and a container full of sugar next to the cup. “You’ll like it pale and sweet.”
How did Tony know?
“Thanks,” Gil said again.
Tony returned to the sink. He quickly rinsed a whole load of dishes and placed them into a large plastic rack, any which way they fit.
“We should fire Adèle,” he said.
“I did,” Renée said.
Tony looked at her for a second, then lifted the filled rack and placed it over several others in an industrial dishwasher. He shut the machine’s door, pushed a few buttons, and Gil heard the muffled whoosh of water and steam.
“They’ll be dry before lunch,” Renée said, “and we have enough for the morning rush.”
Gil heard the front door scrape open, then its lock click back into place. A tall, angular, gray-haired woman appeared in an off-white waitress dress with matching shoes.
She dumped her large handbag into a tiny cupboard beneath the soda machine and locked it in with a key she kept around her neck. She granted Gil only one glance before gathering ketchup bottles from tables. She was obviously used to stray teenagers drinking coffee at the counter before the diner opened.
“You fire Adèle yet?” she asked Renée as she unscrewed all the bottles and began refilling them.
“When I came in,” Renée said.
Gil drained the last of his coffee. It was time to leave. He stood, hoisting his duffel onto his shoulder. Tony was now at the griddle, where he’d dumped a huge mound of chopped onions.
“Thank you,” Gil said. “I should get going.”
“At this time of the morning?” Tony said. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
Both women stared at Gil. He squared his shoulders.
“To find a bank.”
“To rob it?” Renée asked, pointing at the duffel with her knife.
Gil’s anger flashed. “Of course not. I need to exchange money.”
“Ah,” Tony said. He pushed the onions around.
Gil had made it halfway to the back door when Renée, who was now coring green peppers, piped up.
“It’ll be three and a half hours before it opens.”
“I know that,” he said. Truthfully he had hoped it’d be sooner. But still. “I need to find it first.”
“Two doors to our left,” Renée said.
Gil now felt foolish. What was he going to do for the next several hours?
The waitress, who had begun refilling saltshakers on her tray, must have read his mind. She pointed to a door between the women’s and men’s restrooms. “You can store the duffel in the closet. Then you can help me with these.”
Gil hesitated.
She placed the box of salt on the counter, took another key from her neck and unlocked the door. “No one will bother it.”
Gil did owe them a coffee. And if he put some time in here, maybe he’d score some breakfast, too. He gave the waitress one of his nicer smiles.
She told him to call her Richeline and handed him a spare apron. He spent the next half hour distributing saltshakers, gathering and filling sugar jars and placing packets of jam, honey and syrup into baskets Richeline placed in front of him. By six, bleary men and women began trickling in. Most asked
for a coffee to go, with a danish or bagel, but some were taking seats at booths and at the counter. Renée had changed into a new apron and joined Richeline in the bustling dining room, taking orders, serving breakfasts, managing the register, as Tony cooked up one order after another at lightning speed. Gil rinsed dirty dishes in the deep sink and filled racks, ready to load into the dishwasher when the clean dishes cooled down enough to be removed. He fetched anything Tony asked him to, and when the rush subsided sometime around nine-thirty, Tony placed a plate heaping with scrambled eggs, home fries, two pancakes, four pieces of bacon and two slices of buttered toast onto the counter.
“Give the apron to Richeline,” he said.
Gratefully, Gil handed her the now-damp cloth.
She smiled. “Eat up. You earned it.”
Renée nodded as she cashed out a customer farther down the counter.
In the craziness of his impromptu role as dishwasher and gofer, Gil had forgotten how hungry he was. He gobbled down the breakfast, appreciating why the diner had such a large flow of customers in the morning. He scraped the last of the eggs with the remains of his toast and rose to bring the plate back into the kitchen.
“I’ll do that,” Richeline said. She handed him the duffel bag.
“The bank should be open now,” Renée said.
Gil paused. He might need to spend a couple of days in the city. Extra cash would help him get by.
“I was wondering,” he said, “if you need an extra set of hands.…”
“Nope,” Tony said from the griddle. “Can’t hire you. Illegal, you know. But if you need breakfast, you come here. We’ll fix you up.”
Gil exited through the front door, surprised by the street bustle after the quiet earlier that morning. He looked up. An old sign outlined in pink neon announced, “Apropoulis”—his passage, he realized, into the city.
Gil stepped forward and collided with a skinny woman in a pink shirt coming his way.
“Fais ’tention!” she said.
Gil didn’t know what that meant, but by the tone and her scowl, she hadn’t appreciated the bump.
Gil Marsh Page 4
