We both shook our heads.
“The girl with you know them? And what’s her name again?”
I shook my head again. “I don’t think so. She would have said … Allie—Allison Baker.”
He made a couple notes in his notebook. “Let’s go look at the road.”
Uncle Scout nodded. “Come on. Sadie knows the spot.”
He locked up Scout’s Last Chance, stuck a Back at 3:30 note on the door, and he and Peapod and I piled into his red and white pickup. We led the cop out to the hill where the jerks had run us into the ditch. The tire track was still there, deep and thick, hardened in the clay and dirt, and the marks farther up, at the curve in the road, were still visible, too.
The cop looked around carefully and wrote in his notebook. Then he pointed out a place where a mountain bike tire track was visible, intersecting the line of the pickup tread track, which blotted it out.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s Allie’s track.”
He looked around a little more, and then closely examined Scout’s truck and tires. We watched him.
“I believe you,” he said. “Sorry, but I had to check your tread against these tracks. Just to make sure you didn’t make the track. Procedure. Not a match.” He made a few more notes. “We’ll see what we can do.” He shook our hands. “Thanks for the info, Scout, Sadie.”
We watched him drive away. Scout put his hand on my shoulder.
When we got back, I heard saxophone notes floating from the woods. Joe was home early. I followed the sound out behind the house, leaned against a tree, and listened. I wondered how he could do that—make the music so full of emotion. It almost made me cry. I must have moved or sniffed or something, because Joe whipped around, surprised.
“You’re good. Really good.”
“Aw … not really. But thanks.”
I told him about the rednecks and the other freaky guy.
“That’s messed up. I wonder what their deal is,” he said, and we were quiet for a few minutes.
“Joe—” I said, “I’m sorry for Allie. For what she said.”
“It’s okay, Sadie. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry for what I said, too. I didn’t want to tick you off. I … ” He scuffed a toe in the dead grass. “I haven’t had a smoke since. I start to light up, and all I can see is your face when Allie was yellin’ at me.”
“My face? You mean her face?”
“No, your face. All horrified. I’m sorry you got stuck in the middle.” He tossed the hair out of his eyes. “I felt worse for you than for me. You looked so sad. And so pretty.”
I stared at him. “What—what did you say?”
“You heard me, didn’t you?”
I nodded, but I couldn’t say anything. He just looked at me and my heart hammered.
Finally, I stammered, “So … so, you want to ride with us? We’re going tomorrow at four thirty.”
He smiled, shrugged. “Not sure Allie wants me.”
“I’ll go first. Tell her you haven’t smoked. I’ll tell her I invited you. She’s always on time, so come five minutes late. If we’re still there, it’s fine with her.”
“Sadie?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Fifteen
Winds and Rain
June 30
At 4:25 on Saturday afternoon, I was sitting on the Last Chance front step, mountain bike leaning on the wall behind me, waiting for Allie and watching dark storm clouds gather, starting to boil on the western horizon.
“Hey.” Allie skidded up to me in her usual fashion. Peapod wagged over to her and flopped back down.
“I invited Joe,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes at me.
“He hasn’t had a cigarette since you yelled at him.”
“Serious?”
I nodded.
She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” She rubbed Peapod without looking at me until Joe pulled up on his bike.
“Hey,” was all she said to him before she threw her leg over her bike and headed out.
Joe hesitated, one foot on the ground, one on his pedal, and looked at me. “You sure this is okay?”
“Absolutely.” I grinned at him and nodded toward Allie’s back. “Today, we won’t let her drop us.”
We rode west so we could keep an eye on the storm. It was rolling in fast, so we only rode out for forty-five minutes and turned around.
The rain clouds closed in. We rode three abreast on a deserted gravel road. Allie didn’t say anything about smoking, but she teased Joe about the paint splatters on his neck and arms that he hadn’t scrubbed off. She said he’d get a leopard-spot tan.
We laughed, and it felt good. Joe relaxed more and more the farther we rode. But then, it’s hard to stay tensed up when you’re riding for all you’re worth.
I said, “I saw the guys from the blue pickup in the woods yesterday.”
Allie’s head jerked up. “No shit.”
I told her the whole story, including the Polaris-cap guy and the detective, and Allie frowned.
“Peapod’s no dummy,” Joe said.
“What did the third guy look like?” Allie asked.
I’d started to describe him and his arms like rawhide when a few fat drops pelted our arms and helmets, hard as BBs. “Never mind!” Allie yelled over the wind. “Let’s go!” And she down-shifted and took off. Joe and I followed.
By the time we reached LeHillier, the wind and the rain were pounding us.
“Wanna come in?” I yelled to Allie through the downpour, outside Scout’s.
“No, thanks. This looks like it’ll last awhile. I’m already drenched, so I better just go home.”
“Sunday tomorrow. I don’t have to work, do you?” I hollered.
“No,” they both said.
“Let’s ride at nine,” Allie said. “Okay?”
“Sure. Want to give me your number where I can call you just in case?” My voice was getting drowned out in thunder.
She stopped, rain running off her helmet, making rivulets down her arms. “It’s not worth it. Mom’s always on the Internet. And we only have dial-up.”
“We can ride over and pick you up. Just tell us where,” Joe yelled. He was standing under the Last Chance entry, squeezing water out of his jersey.
“No!” she said. “I’ll just be here at nine.”
I shrugged. “Whatever. Okay, see you at nine. Be careful.”
And she took off.
Joe and I sprinted through the downpour to put our bikes in the garage. Once inside the house, we started stripping off whatever wet clothes we could spare while staying decent. “Holy crap, these are heavy,” he said holding his shoes. Our soaked shoes and socks weighed about five pounds apiece.
Joe peeled off his jersey. His chest was cut, tan. He truly was beautiful, and completely unaware that I was staring at his body. “I’m sure glad I don’t have to go out in the rain to get a smoke, tonight.”
When he looked up, I tried to act like I wasn’t staring.
“Nobody ever quite put it like Allie did,” he continued. “I just figured I’d quit sometime when I needed to. I don’t want to smoke for the rest of my life, but it’s no big deal now, ya know? I was dyin’ at work these last days, I wanted a cigarette so bad. I was praying to just get through the day.” He grinned again. “I chewed three packs of gum and drank a whole case of Mountain Dew in two days.” He laughed and rubbed his wet jersey on his cold, wet chest.
I tried to keep my eyes on his face while looking at his chest, but I wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
“But,” he went on, “I threw the cigs away that afternoon when I was so ticked off at Allie. I felt like well, I’ll show her.”
“Good for you,”
I said.
“Oh, shut up.” He gave my shoulder a gentle shove. “It’s only been a few days. And it’s only to prove to her that I can, ’cause she made me so mad.” He smiled. I felt the nearness of his naked chest and I forgot about being cold and wet.
“I bet Allie did that on purpose. To make you so mad you’d quit,” I said. “And your lungs probably don’t care why you quit.”
He leaned over and gently grabbed my ponytail and pulled my face close to his. “Thanks for asking me to ride again.” My heart thundered, and there we stood, our faces an inch apart.
“Let’s go shower,” he whispered. “I’m freezing.”
He let go of my hair, and I followed him into the kitchen. I tiptoed to the bathroom so I wouldn’t leave big wet footprints. I threw Joe a bath towel and shut myself in to take a hot shower. Joe went to the basement bathroom.
I stood leaning on the shower wall, letting the water run over me, breasts, hips, legs, trying to calm my heart from thundering like the sky outside.
After we’d both showered, we met in the kitchen to find leftovers from dinner. Aunt Susan refused to wait dinner on us when we were out riding, so we lived on leftovers. We were starving, and wolfed down chicken and cold steamed asparagus.
“So what do you know about Allie?” Joe asked me, his mouth full of chicken thigh meat.
“That she can kick my butt any day of the week.”
“Besides that. I mean, why won’t she give you her phone number or anything?”
I shook my head. “She doesn’t say much about herself.” My heart thumped the same way it had when Joe’d said he thought Allie hadn’t wanted to share me with him. I thought about Allie’s dad in prison, but that seemed private, like something she’d trusted me with that I shouldn’t tell anybody else. “Why?” I asked. “What do you want to know? You like her?”
“You mean, like, want her? Like a girlfriend? You nuts? She’d rip a guy’s heart out and eat it for lunch. Besides … ” He leaned across the table. “Who could see her with you around?”
“Me?”
“Sadie. You’re … amazing.”
I knew I was smiling. A warm glow spread all through my insides. It was the first time all summer I was thoroughly glad to be me, to live in my own skin.
“Don’t get mad at me for saying this,” Joe said. “Promise?”
“Can’t promise until I know what you’re going to say.”
“Think she’s a dyke? I mean, seriously?”
I jumped up. “Why do you keep bringing that up?” Just when I felt so happy. Tears stung my eyes. “What’s the deal?”
“You said that you wouldn’t get mad.”
“I didn’t promise anything.” I grabbed the container of chicken and slammed it back into the refrigerator. “What difference does it make? Why should it make any difference at all if she is?”
“Holy crap, settle down. Why are you so pissed when I bring that up?”
I wanted to say, you bring her up almost every time I feel like you like me; whenever you’re close to me, you’re obviously thinking about her, but I just said, “’Cause she’s my friend! And … ”
“And what? And so what if she is? It’s not a horrible thing to be a lesbian. I have friends at school who are dykes. I just wondered. And I didn’t ask if you were a dyke. Just her.”
“Shut up.”
“Why? Has she made a pass at you?” he asked.
“No!” I stared at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. His eyes were twinkling, but I could see that he meant his question. “Honestly? It never occurred to me. And shouldn’t you say ‘lesbian’?”
Joe shrugged. “She’s cool. I like her, too. Doesn’t matter to me. And I say ‘dyke’ ’cause my friends at school call themselves dykes. Or ‘queer.’ They call themselves queer mostly.”
Timmy and Stevie came running into the kitchen, flying balsa-wood planes. Stevie launched one and it bonked into Joe’s shoulder. “Watch it,” Joe said. He picked it up and handed it back. “Better take those to the family room. Or the garage. Not so much stuff to crash into.”
“Oh, yeah, the garage!” Timmy yelled, and off they went.
My mind was spinning. The “out” lesbians in my high school were militant. Loud. Highly pierced, with buzzed heads, clunky boots … Allie sort of fit the stereotype, but it wasn’t something that mattered. I just liked her, and didn’t think about it. In fact, I admired her so much I wanted to be her. Maybe that was the part that bugged me. I wanted to be her. I couldn’t make all these pieces connect.
Joe watched the rain out the kitchen window and said, “If this was Arizona, we’d be flash-flooded right down the river.”
“Why does it matter to you?” I said again.
“Flash floods?”
“You dork. If Allie’s a lesbian.”
He shrugged. “Just want to know where I stand.”
I squinted at him, trying to figure out what he meant. He smiled slowly at me. “Want to know my competition. ’Night, Sadie.” He went into the study and shut the door.
I made myself a cup of mint tea and sat in the kitchen, listening to the thunder and watching the lightning for a long time. I really, really wished Erica or Sara were online to IM or at least email. But even with a slim chance that they were online, Scout’s computer was in the office with Joe. Nobody to talk to about Joe.
I took my tea down to Cedar Claustrophobia Central and curled up on the fold-out with the latest issue of Bicycling magazine. At least Mom had forwarded my mail for the summer. Of course, I couldn’t read or sleep. Even in this insulated cellar, I could hear the wind howling and feel Joe’s hand on my ponytail.
Sixteen
Finding Father
July 1
I must have fallen asleep reading because my light was still on when Joe woke me at eight fifteen. When I opened my eyes, he was leaning over my fold-out bed. “Sadie! You better get up if we’re meeting Allie at nine.”
“It’s morning? Oh, hi.”
Joe reached out his hand as if he wanted to touch my hair, but then pulled it back. “Meet you upstairs.”
We ate oatmeal and drank orange juice. I poured cereal for Josie and got Stacie set up with a pile of Cheerios on her highchair tray. Timmy, Stevie, and Megan were already eating in front of cartoons.
“Thanks,” Aunt Susan said. She looked frazzled already. “You riding now?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“We’re meeting Allie,” Joe said.
I felt as if I should ask if it was okay that we went, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to give her the option of saying no. I hadn’t asked for permission all summer, and if she said no now, I’d feel obligated to stay home and help her. Then what about Allie?
“As soon as we get back,” I said, “I’ll do whatever you need, okay? Make a list.” I smiled, hoping I looked helpful.
On the way out the door, Joe poked me with his elbow and muttered, “Brown-noser.”
I elbowed back.
Allie’s bike was parked by the front door of the Last Chance. She was waiting for us inside, sitting on the floor and rubbing Peapod.
“Be careful,” Scout said. “Have fun. Stick together, will ya?” He put an unlit cigar in his mouth and started sweeping the bar floor. “Those assholes make me more than a little nervous. And there are lots of trees down from the storm. So be careful.”
Allie, Joe, and I took off into the woods, bouncing our way over downed tree limbs and leaves.
That’s the morning Joe slid on the slick leaves and catapulted into the ravine. That’s when we found Father Malcolm, his body beaten to a barely breathing, bloody pulp in the woods.
When Allie rode off to call 911, all Joe and I could do was wait, sitting in the wet leaves beside this lost soul.
“That means we’d have to roll him over,” Joe said. We swallowed in unison and scrambled to our feet.
“Are we not supposed to disturb him? I mean, isn’t this a crime scene?”
“But he’s alive,” Joe said. “You don’t move a dead body. But what if he can’t breathe, face-planted in the mud like this?”
So I peeled off my biking gloves, too. If I touched the man with them on, I’d have to throw them away. My hands, I could wash. I took the man’s left hip, Joe took his left shoulder. We lifted and pushed.
Dead weight, I thought. That was a bad metaphor. In English class, Mrs. Rosen said that metaphors compare unlike things. Father-whoever-it-was was not unlike a dead thing. Not unlike at all. I couldn’t believe I was thinking about metaphors when I was touching an almost-dead body for the first time in my life. But maybe that’s how the mind works—distract yourself from horror so you don’t freak out entirely.
His body was heavy and stuck. Pulling him loose made a sucking sound in the mud. When he flopped onto his back, I saw he was even bloodier in the front. Mud smeared his face. His nose was skewed at a crazy angle. A piece of broken tooth stuck in the mud and there was blood on his chest. But we could hear ragged breathing going in and out.
Below his chin, his white clerical collar was cloaked with mud and more blood. His crucifix had been wound around his neck. To choke him.
“Holy crap,” Joe said under his breath. He untwisted the crucifix chain a couple turns to make sure it wasn’t still cutting of the priest’s air supply. Then Joe touched his own forehead, chest, and shoulder to shoulder. The sign of the cross.
I felt my breakfast rising for real, and I stumbled into the woods before it came sailing out, spraying the weeds with orange-juice-tinged oatmeal. When I was done, I wiped my mouth on my forearm. I didn’t want to touch my face with the hand that had touched this half-dead man.
Finally, finally the cops came. The rescue truck and the ambulance wailed up the hill to the LeHillier junk woods and wound down the dirt roads as close as they could get to us.
Chasing AllieCat Page 8
