Pushed

by Franklin W. Dixon

  A new photo came up: a series of items tagged as evidence—a beat-up wallet, a small pocket knife, a piece of paper with Gwen Anderson’s number on it.

  “Nothing in Davis’s possession indicated what he intended to tell the reporter,” our contact went on.

  A film clip began to run, a commercial about the Haven and all the kids the center helped. The clip showed teenagers playing basketball, doing homework together at a big table, having a food fight with big smiles on their faces. Then it flashed to the same kids sleeping on the streets, begging for money, eating food from a trash can. The commercial ended with a plea for charitable contributions.

  I could totally see my parents sending in money after watching it. The Haven looked like a good place—a safe place.

  “Your mission is to go undercover at the Haven,” our contact said. “Davis thought there was something criminal happening at the center. Find out what it is. And, most importantly, find out if Davis was pushed off that subway platform.”

  3.

  RUNAWAYS

  Joe and I stared at the blank screen of the game player as the cartridge destroyed itself. The cartridges always self-destruct as part of ATAC’s security system.

  “That was . . .” Joe let his words trail off.

  “Yeah,” I answered. The two of us have worked on cases involving death before, but thinking about Evan Davis getting run over by the train—that was gut-wrenching. Had someone pushed him? Was someone responsible? Or had Evan just fallen?

  “What do you think Evan could have known that would make somebody willing to kill him like that?” Joe asked.

  “If it was a murder,” I said.

  Joe raised one eyebrow, a skill he’d practiced in the mirror for more than a month until he got it down. “Pretty big coincidence that it happened when he was on his way to give a reporter the scoop on the badness going on at the Haven.”

  “True,” I agreed. “But we still shouldn’t go into the case with assumptions in place.”

  “So what do you think he found out about the center? Could it be a cult, you think? Or maybe they use the kids for organ donors. Or maybe—”

  “Organ donors?” I protested.

  “Yeah. Haven’t you heard that story? The one about this guy who woke up in a hotel room after the junior prom with one of his kidneys gone,” Joe answered.

  “Oh, right. Yeah, it’s definitely either organ harvesting, or Evan found out there were alligators in the toilets of the Haven,” I told him.

  “Wait. I’m supposed to be the sarcastic one,” Joe shot back. “And organs go for big money.”

  “I’ll give you that,” I agreed. “But I think it’s pointless to try to guess what’s going on at the Haven until we get there and have at least a little intel.”

  Joe flopped back on his lumpy bed. Lumpy because Joe makes it by just tossing the bedspread over the tangle of sheets and blankets. “So what’s our cover story? Why did we run away? What’s our deal?”

  I sat down in front of Joe’s computer and googled “why teens run away.” I clicked on the top link. “Wow. This website says forty percent of kids who run away have been locked out of the house. They’re called throwaways.”

  Joe’s eyes widened, then he grinned. “Aunt Trudy locked us out of the house once. Remember? We decided to make mudpies in the kitchen.”

  “She locked us out in our own backyard for about three minutes,” I reminded him.

  “So the story of the cruelty of our horrible aunt probably won’t work as a cover at the Haven,” Joe concluded. “What else does the website say?”

  I scanned it. “It says drugs and alcohol abuse by the teens,” I told him.

  “By the family, too, I bet,” Joe commented.

  “Yeah, that’s on the list,” I said. “Also stepfamily issues. Parents getting divorced. Fear of consequences for stuff like failing a test. Sometimes kids who have realized they’re gay run, because they don’t think their parents will be able to handle it.”

  “Stepfamily issues seems too complicated. We’d have to come up with step-sibs or stepparents,” said Joe.

  “Yeah. Too many fake details could trip us up. We should stay as close to the truth as we can,” I agreed. I looked at the list of reasons to run again. “If we go with drug or alcohol abuse—by us, I mean—we’d need to keep up the front that we’re using.”

  “They’ve got to have rules against it at the Haven,” Joe pointed out.

  I nodded. “Except I bet there’s some rule-breaking going on.”

  “How about divorce?”

  “Works for me. So why are our parents getting divorced?” I asked. I felt a twinge zing down my back as the words came out of my mouth. It was creepy even thinking about our parents splitting up.

  “Well, Mom does hate it when Dad forgets to turn his shirts right side out before he puts them in the laundry basket,” said Joe.

  “And Dad hates the way Mom has turned the entire basement into a recycling center,” I added. “But . . .”

  “It’s not like anybody gets divorced over stuff like that. Or at least not unless there’s a bunch of other badness going on,” Joe finished for me.

  “What if we use the alcohol abuse for Dad?” I asked. “We could say he lost his job, started drinking during the day. It got out of control.”

  “Okay,” Joe said. “I guess we should throw some clothes and stuff in backpacks.”

  “Not too much, though,” I cautioned. “I don’t think many runaways hit the streets with a pile of suitcases.”

  “No problem for me,” Joe answered. “I’m not the clean underwear freak. You know my method—turn them inside out and they’re pretty much fresh.”

  “And you wonder why girls like me more,” I said. I stood up. “I’m going to get my stuff together. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  “What excuse do we give Mom and Aunt Trudy this time?” asked Joe.

  I thought about it for a minute. “Let’s start with the truth. Let’s tell them we’re going to New York. We can say we’re on the stage crew for the play our school is going to do at that teen one-act festival.”

  “Because a couple of the guys who were going to do it got the flu that’s going around,” Joe added.

  “That should do it,” I said.

  Tomorrow night we’ll be sleeping at the Haven, I thought. I wondered what we’d find out there. At least I knew I wouldn’t be waking up without a kidney.

  Well, I was pretty sure.

  “Even with my eyes closed, I’d know we aren’t in Bayport,” Joe announced as we headed down West Twenty-third Street.

  “You’ve got to be the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes,” I joked. “What gave it away? The smell of hot garbage mixed with old urine?” Every subway grate we passed was pumping out steam with that perfume.

  “That, but you left out the scent of pretzels and hot dogs mixed with car exhaust,” Joe answered. “With a little of the Hudson River added in. Oh, and aftershave, sweat . . .” He closed his eyes and sniffed. “A bit of wet dog, a bit of oil, new sneakers . . .”

  “Definitely more variety of odors,” I agreed.

  “More variety of everything.” Joe opened his eyes again. “More sounds, more kinds of food—I want to go to Little India, by the way. I need the aloo gobi in my belly. Then we can walk down to Little Italy and get cannoli for dessert, like that time when we were here with Mom and Dad.”

  “We’re going to be undercover as runaways, not tourists. Or restaurant critics,” I reminded him. “And speaking of being undercover . . .” I stopped next to a blanket laid out on the sidewalk. A guy had a bunch of stuff set out on it for sale. I picked up a blue and green plaid flannel shirt. The collar was frayed and one of the buttons was missing. Perfect.

  “How much?” I asked the guy.

  “A buck,” he told me, without looking up from the stack of records he was arranging. “All shirts are a buck.”

  I handed him a dollar and tossed the shirt to Joe.

&
nbsp; “For me? You shouldn’t have. You really shouldn’t have,” Joe said.

  “It’s for work,” I told him.

  Joe nodded. He took off his jacket and pulled the shirt on over his sweater. Then he grabbed a holey T-shirt with a faded picture of Britney Spears on the front and tossed it to me.

  “No. Every guy in the place would want to beat me up if I walked around wearing this,” I protested.

  Joe studied the T-shirt for a minute. “Even I’d want to beat you up,” he admitted. He put the shirt back and handed me a gray one with the words GARY’S CLAM SHACK on the front. It was too big and had permanent pit stains. I shrugged off my coat and added the short-sleeved T-shirt to the long-sleeved one I was already wearing.

  “My gift to you,” Joe said, paying the guy. The man grunted as he shoved the buck into his pocket, still working on getting his records in order. “Does anyone even buy records anymore?” Joe asked as we continued down the street.

  “Collectors,” I offered.

  Joe glanced over his shoulder at the records on the blanket. “I doubt many collectors shop off the sidewalk. At a flea market, maybe.”

  “At least he sold something today.” I ran my hands over my new-to-me T-shirt. “With our two dollars he can get . . . a slice of pizza.” And that was it.

  “Good call on the clothes,” Joe said.

  “Yeah. I know we weren’t exactly wearing our best, but I don’t think we looked like we’d spent even a couple of days on the street.”

  “True. And I doubt many people take off from home and go directly to the Haven. It seems like running away is more of an impulse thing.” Joe knelt down and pulled the lace out of one of his sneakers. “I think we need a little more distressing,” he explained. “The shirts kind of stick out when everything else we have on is better.”

  I noticed a puddle of what I very much hoped was spilled soda. I ran my fingers though it, then wiped them on my jacket. “Aunt Trudy’s going to kill me,” I muttered.

  “Hey, when you signed on with American Teens Against Crime, you knew there’d be danger,” replied Joe.

  We reached the corner. Joe and I were the only two who waited for the light to change. It’s a New York City thing. I’m surprised there isn’t a fleet of ambulances that just circle the blocks waiting to pick up pedestrians who’ve been mowed down by taxis.

  “There it is,” Joe said, nodding toward a building in the middle of the block.

  From this angle we could see a mural on the side of the Haven center that hadn’t been visible in the footage we’d watched. A blond girl almost three stories tall was falling through a rabbit hole, her eyes wide and blank. Syringes and pills and wine bottles swirled around her. A leering Mad Hatter tore at her fluttering white apron. A rat gnawed at one of her little black shoes.

  “I don’t remember any rats in Alice in Wonderland,” Joe commented.

  “I think it’s supposed to show what happens to runaways when they end up living on the street,” I said.

  “Deep.”

  “Let’s get in there,” I said.

  Joe nodded and led the way up the three cement steps to the Haven’s door. “Do we knock or—”

  The door swung open before he could finish his question. A tall guy—he had to be six-three—with a scruff grinned down at us. “Welcome to the Haven,” he said. “You need a place to stay?” He ran his fingers over the little patch of hair under his lip.

  “Yeah. We do,” I answered. I expected him to ask for details, but he didn’t. Which, when I thought about it, made sense. A lot of kids who run away probably have a lot of things they want to keep secret. If they got hit with a bunch of questions as soon as they walked into the place, they might bolt.

  “We’re pretty full up, but I think we can squeeze you in. Tess always says there’s room for one more. Or, in this case, two. I’m Sandy, by the way.” Joe and I took turns knocking fists with him. Then he waved us inside.

  “Who’s Tess?” asked Joe.

  “Tess Markham. She runs the place. Founded it, actually. She had a son who took off when he was sixteen. It’s been more than ten years, but I don’t think she’s ever completely given up hope that he’ll come back,” Sandy explained. He paused in the hallway and pointed to a large piece of poster board on the wall. It had a single word written on it in all capital letters: RESPECT. “We don’t have a lot of rules here. This about does it.” Sandy tapped the word.

  “That covers a lot,” he continued. “Respect for the Haven. Respect for the other people who live here. Respect for yourselves. Respect for the Haven means you’ll have assigned chores to keep the place clean and in good shape with repairs. Respect for the other people who live here means no stealing, no fighting, no trash talk. Also, no romantic relationships with other residents. When you’re on your own and underage, that’s plenty to deal with without the drama of having a boyfriend or girlfriend living in the house with you. Trust me on this one.” Sandy gave us another one of his wide grins. “I stayed here when I first left home. Just dealing with school and job training was more than enough to keep me busy.”

  He tapped the word RESPECT again. “Like I said, respect includes respect for yourself. That means no drinking. No drugs. Tess tolerates a lot of things, but not being high while you’re living at the Haven.” He continued on down the hall. “This is my office,” he told us.

  Through the open door I saw a desk with mounds of paper and empty soda cans all over it. A lime green futon couch sat in front of it, along with a couple of mismatched chairs. “Feel free to drop by any time. You guys need to come by later so we can deal with some paperwork issues.”

  “What kind of paperwork?” I asked, trying to sound suspicious. If I was a real runaway, I wouldn’t want to fill out any papers that would help anybody track me down.

  “Don’t worry. We keep all the info we get completely confidential,” Sandy answered, as if he’d read my mind. “Mostly I want to talk to you guys about school and job training. We have GED classes and a bunch of different employment programs here. And Tess is awesome about getting kids college scholarships. I’ll go through all the details with you later. First, lunch. Everyone who stays here takes a turn cooking, from the kids all the way up to Tess. She actually loves cooking. We practically have to shove her out of the kitchen on the nights she has some fund-raising event set up. With the different cooks, some meals are better than others, but there’s always lots of food.”

  He seems like a decent guy, I thought as we headed toward the dining hall. But there was something going on at the Haven that Evan had wanted to tell a reporter. Something bad. Sandy worked here. He’d even stayed here as a runaway. It would be almost impossible for him not to know about whatever it was Evan had found out. Right?

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Sandy Lewis

  Hometown: Boston, Massachusetts

  Physical description: 6’3”, approximately 210 lbs., age 27, light brown hair, brown eyes, scruff.

  Occupation: Assistant director, the Haven.

  Background: Lived at the Haven when he ran away from home as a teenager. Not in touch with his family.

  Suspicious behavior: His job gives him access to almost everything that goes on at the Haven. Whatever Evan wanted to report about the center was probably something Sandy knew. Would he kill to keep a secret about the Haven?

  Suspected of: The murder of Evan Davis.

  Possible motives: Sandy feels the Haven saved his life. He’s loyal to the center and Tess Markham. He wouldn’t want anything negative about the Haven to come out in the press.

  “From the smell, I’d say that today’s group of chefs have prepared spaghetti and garlic bread. Hard to mangle either of those too badly, so eat up in case the dinner crew decides to get a little creative,” Sandy advised. He pushed open the double doors leading to the dining hall.

  I froze. I saw something that could instantly end our mission.

  4.

  A DEAD GUY’S JACKET

&
nbsp; Frank grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away from the door. What was the deal?

  “Uh, is there a bathroom we could hit before lunch?” he asked Sandy.

  “Down the hall, on the left,” he answered.

  “Come on,” Frank told me.

  “Are we girls now?” I asked as we walked down the hall. “Do we have to go to the bathroom in pairs?”

  Frank glanced over his shoulder. I took a look too. The hall was empty. “I saw Lily Fowler in the dining room,” Frank said.

  “Lily Fowler? You mean elementary school Lily Fowler?” I asked.

  “I’m pretty sure. She looks a lot different, but, yeah, I’m almost positive it was her.” Frank shoved his fingers through his dark hair. “If I recognized her . . .”

  “Then she could recognize us,” I finished for him.

  “I’m not sure that she’s going to buy that we’re runaways, even with our cover story,” said Frank. “If she remembers our family at all, it’s probably not going to seem that likely.”

  “I was over at the Fowlers’ a couple of times—for a birthday party and then to study with Lily and some other kids once. I met her parents and everything. I wouldn’t have thought she’d end up at a place like the Haven,” I answered.

  Frank thought this over, then nodded. “True. I guess you never really know what it’s like inside somebody else’s family.”

  “So if she recognizes us, we just tell her the story we came up with—about Dad’s drinking and everything. And if she doesn’t, then we just act like we don’t recognize her either,” I said.

  “Let’s do it.” Frank turned around and we walked back to the dining hall. I scanned the room as I stepped inside. Tables of different sizes were scattered around. A girl with a mole near the corner of her left eyebrow sat at the nearest one. “That’s her,” I said softly. When we’d known her, Lily had had reddish blond hair that fell halfway down her back. Now she practically had a crew cut, and her hair was ink black. But I knew that mole, and the tiny not-deep-enough-to-be-a-cleft indentation in her chin.