by Jake Burt
Five.
I twist my childhood forever-friend around in my arms.
Ten.
I use my left hand to tug her paw away from the tear beneath. I mutter a silent apology as more of her worn fur rips, enlarging the hole.
Fifteen.
We arrive downstairs, just as Arturo’s man stands up fully, his hand against the door frame to steady himself. With the widest, cruelest smile I’ve ever seen, Arturo shrugs and lifts his gun.
An instant later, he has two electrified probes dancing in his cheek.
His smile snaps closed into a grimace, and his entire body locks up. He pulls the trigger of his gun involuntarily, but the bullet just slams into the staircase behind us, stinging us with splinters. Then he falls to the ground, dragging Fancypaws from my grip as the cords tug her free.
Jackson leaps forward, picking up the bat and smashing it over the last man’s head. Jonathan dives for Arturo’s gun and pries it from his still-rigid hand.
“What in the…” my father yelps, but he silences himself as Jonathan jumps to his feet.
“Put her down, Christian.”
“I’m her father,” he says, and he holds me close. My lips brush his ear, and I can whisper.
“You need to go, Dad. Police will come. The marshals know.”
“Not without you. You heard Arturo. Doesn’t matter that he’s down now. Won’t even matter if you kill him. Those people won’t stop coming for this family. I leave you, they won’t stop coming for me, either. I’m saving both of us here, Nicki.”
I force myself to kiss his cheek, and his eyes widen in surprise.
“You can’t take me,” I whisper. “I’m hurt. I need a hospital.”
He shakes his head, but there’s a violence playing out across his face, and it’s agonizing.
With a whimper, I unwrap my hand. The blood flows freely from the hole, near the very center of my palm. I almost retch just seeing it. Harriet jumps up, wrapping the shirt back around.
I watch a tear roll down my father’s cheek, and he blinks more away. Then he looks at Harriet.
“Got no choice. We’re going.”
“Dad,” I plead, but he hushes me, and a wave of dizziness forces my eyes closed.
“The nearest hospital is Duke,” Harriet says. “Down the road, take a right, and follow the signs. Please. Please take her.”
I can’t tell if my father heard Harriet or not, but I do feel the sudden jagging as he carries me out onto the front porch. I hear the creak of the third step and his aggressive, awkward fumbling to open the car door and hold me at the same time. He puts me in the passenger seat, buckles me in, and slides in next to me. I open my eyes enough to see the key already in the ignition.
“Nicki,” my father says, “I’m going to try to get you to a gas station. We’ll find bandages there, fix up your hand, and then…”
“The hospital, Dad. Please.”
“Can’t go to the hospital. I take you there, I get caught by the police. I’ll go back to jail.”
“Then take me inside. Let Jonathan or Harriet call an ambulance.”
“Back inside? Nicki, we have to get as far away from that family as possible. It’s not safe.”
He starts the car and peels away from the curb. As he drives, his hands twist around the rubber of the steering wheel, eyes darting toward every side road. In the half-light of the streetlamps, he looks hollow. Haunted.
“I am safe, Dad,” I say softly. “I have a family who wants me. I have a friend who knows me.”
“Damnit, Nicki.” He sighs, glancing down at my hand, at the way my hair clings to my cheek. “Look at you. There is no safe!”
“Maybe not a normal safe. Maybe not. But Dad.” I shiver, resting my head against the window, my hand cradled in the cove of my lap. “This is my safe. You say you want to keep me away from your world? Then help me make my own.”
He does not respond. I whimper through another wave of pain, and the urge to close my eyes, to fall asleep, is suddenly overwhelming. Before I do, though, I allow myself one more glance at my father.
It lasts just long enough to see him stop beneath the hospital lights.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Nicki Doesn’t Live Here Anymore
I don’t get to see them take my father away, and I’m not allowed access to newspapers or the internet in Glynco. It’s part of my debrief. At least, that’s what Janice tells me.
“When can I see Harriet and Jonathan?” I ask from my infirmary bed.
Janice steps gingerly over the pile of bandages on the floor.
“You need to keep these on,” she says sternly.
“They make me feel sick, like gloves,” I argue. “My hands shake with them on, and the doctors said I need to keep them still as much as possible. Besides, the gauze pads cover up the hole enough. Wanna see?”
She grimaces, but she sits down at the edge of my bed all the same. Looking through her folder, she takes out a photograph and holds it up.
“Is this the man who was with Arturo? Look closely.”
I roll my eyes. “Janice, it was only three days ago. That’s him. Did you figure out how they found us? Found my dad?”
Janice growls, closing the folder and slapping her hands down on it. “They broke us down bit by bit. A clue here, a lead there. Jackson’s Facebook page didn’t help, and the picture on the school website sealed it. They even threatened Deputy Marshal Harkness, though you’ll be pleased to know he didn’t give them anything.”
I smile. “He wouldn’t. And I know you wouldn’t, either.”
Janice pauses, pursing her lips.
“Thank you, Nicki. As for your father, once they had the picture of you with the Trevors, we believe they distributed it to their entire network. Perhaps one of your former foster relatives or a teacher somewhere recognized you. Once they had your name, it wouldn’t be hard for an organization with their resources to find a parolee.”
“I wrote him a letter,” I say. “Had to use my left hand.”
Janice sits bolt upright, nearly dumping her folder on the floor.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to send it; I don’t even know where he is. Probably for the best.”
The deputy marshal relaxes maybe, like, a half inch, but she continues giving me the hairy eyeball.
“It’s best to avoid attachments, Nicki, particularly now. Things are going to be … unsettled, maybe for quite a while.”
I glance over at Fancypaws, who has had a patch job and no longer packs heat. “Unsettled is okay. I’m used to unsettled. I can even help Jackson with it now; I’m pretty sure he’ll let me.”
Janice fingers her starchy collar, her neck and cheeks suddenly red. She’s blinking a lot, too. I sit up.
“What, Janice? Is Jackson okay? Is there a reason I haven’t seen…”
“You’ll see them tomorrow morning, and yes, Jackson is fine,” she replies curtly, standing up and gathering her things.
“Tomorrow morning? Why not now?”
“It’s ten o’clock. And besides, I said things would be unsettled. It’s best not to press the issue.”
To punctuate her words, she taps the bedpost with her folder.
“Good night, Janice,” I say as I pull Fancypaws over, resting her in the crook of my shoulder.
“Get some rest,” she says, smoothing a hand along my sheets. When she reaches the door, she cuts off the lights and turns to go. Before she does, though, she glances back. In a whisper, she adds, “You’ve earned it.”
The next morning, the marshals try to load me into a wheelchair, but I wriggle away; my legs are working just fine. As soon as I hear from Janice which room the Trevors are in, I skip ahead, ignoring her protests. When I burst into the room, they’re already seated at a table. They seem exhausted and spent, but all three stand up. Janice bustles in behind me.
“Now that we’re here,” the deputy marshal says matter-of-factly, flipping through a sheaf of papers, “we can—”
“Quiet,” Harriet murmurs.
“Excuse me?” Janice snaps.
“I said quiet, for a moment, please,” Harriet responds, and she glides toward me.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi, my girl,” she says, reaching up to brush a fingertip along my cheek.
“Are … are you guys okay?”
She nods, and then she indicates my hand. “And you’re…”
“Okay, too. It’s still hard to move, and it itches terribly. The doctors said I’ll need to do six months of therapy, and then we’ll see. On the bright side, it means I get to play video games and stuff to build up the nerves and muscles. So there’s that.”
Harriet smiles and reaches out for my good hand. When I flinch, she pulls back. “Oh yes. That’s right. I forgot. I just wanted to—”
I cut her off with the most ferocious hug I think I’ve ever given. By the time we’re done, Janice has already finished her coffee. She tells all of us to sit down, and then starts reading from a prepared statement.
“On behalf of the United States marshals and the WITSEC program, I’d like to officially apologize for the failure of Project Family to ensure your safety,” Janice begins. “While it has met with success in other regions, we feel it is too destabilizing to continue in your case. Although Arturo Cercatore is no longer a direct threat, your family’s reach remains considerable, Elena.”
“You’re moving us again, aren’t you?” Jackson grumbles.
Janice scowls at him, but answers. “In short, yes. We will proceed with a standard relocation, which has proven effective numerous times in the past. Granted, your experiences with the Cercatores show that criminals’ methods of tracking down witnesses in our program have advanced considerably, but after discussion, we have decided that our tried-and-true strategy will serve best here.”
“Where are we going this time?” Jonathan asks.
“I’m not at liberty to say in present company,” she remarks, glancing at me. “Only those directly involved may know, as part of the safety protocol.”
My jaw drops. “Wait, you mean…”
“Nicki, you’ll be placed into a reputable foster system in another district. We’ll provide you with a new social security number, new papers, and a new identity.”
I pull up my legs, curling them around my shaking hands. My injured palm burns.
“Don’t be petulant, Nicki. We’ll get you placed shortly, and we’ll assure that you’ve moved on.”
Jonathan stands up. “Like hell you will.”
Janice opens her mouth, but Harriet slaps the table. “No, Janice. No. This isn’t even a discussion.” She points at me. “See that girl in the chair there? The one who has endured more than any child should ever have to? The one who saved me, saved my husband, saved my son? That’s my daughter. She’s mine, and I’d rather share a cell with my psychopath brother for the rest of my short life than be the mom who sends her away.”
Janice leans forward, raising her hands. Jonathan looms over her, though, and even her pinched brow wavers in the face of his expression.
“Leave this room, Deputy Marshal, and don’t come back until you’ve found a way to make this work. I don’t care who you call, what you say, how many signatures you have to forge. My wife helped you and yours cripple one of the biggest crime syndicates in the world, and we’ve asked for nothing. Nothing. Now, we’re asking for this, and you’re going to give it to us.”
Slowly, Janice pushes back from the table. She straightens her uniform jacket and neatly arranges the papers in her stack. Tucking it underneath her arm, she holds out her chin defiantly, looking down her nose at Harriet and Jonathan. Then she pivots, and with a stabbing step marches toward the door. Before she slams it shut, she twists her head to the side.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sicurezza,” she mutters, the corner of her mouth perhaps, just perhaps, curling slightly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
We wait together for twenty minutes. None of us says much. When the door silently swings open, we all tense. Janice is there, a fresh cup of coffee in her hand and a stern look on her face. She breathes deeply, then sits in her chair. We watch as she takes each piece of paper out of her folder, one at a time. We squirm as she arranges them in a perfect overlapping row. She sips her coffee once, puts the cup down, and clears her throat.
Finally, she says, “How do you all feel about Arizona?”
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Acknowledgments
I’d be a pretty poor excuse for a writing teacher if I didn’t acknowledge the many people who helped make this book possible. Liz Szabla and the magnificent team at Feiwel and Friends—thank you for giving Nicki a home, and for helping with repairs when the manuscript needed it. Thanks, too, to my agent, Rebecca Stead. You are a Renaissance woman of the first order, and I feel blessed to have your experience and encouragement to guide me.
Nicki’s adventures were also tweaked, fine-tuned, and immeasurably improved by the input of my second readers, to whom I am deeply grateful: Adam Solomon, Jennifer Shaw, Carol Maoz, Caroline Huber, Caitlin Simon, Greg Huber, Ruthann Gill, and Donald and Donna Burt.
Finally, all my love to Elizabeth and Lauriann, who have encouraged me in every phase of this journey … possibly because when I’m writing, I’m not playing the banjo. Your support could simply be an act of self-preservation, but I treasure it all the same.
[BEGIN RECORDING]
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Thank you for reading this Feiwel and Friends book.
The Friends who made Greetings from Witness Protection! possible are:
Jean Feiwel, Publisher
Liz Szabla, Associate Publisher
Rich Deas, Senior Creative Director
Holly West, Editor
Alexei Esikoff, Senior Managing Editor
Kim Waymer, Senior Production Manager
Anna Roberto, Editor
Christine Barcellona, Associate Editor
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Anna Poon, Assistant Editor
Emily Settle, Administrative Assistant
Rebecca Syracuse, Junior Designer
Melinda Ackell, Senior Production Editor
Follow us on Facebook or visit us online at mackids.com. Our books are friends for life.
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[END RECORDING]
About the Author
Jake Burt teaches the fifth grade in Connecticut. He lives with his wife and their daughter in Hamden, CT. Greetings from Witness Protection! is his fiction debut. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter One: Kind of Home
Chapter Two: Careful What You Wish For
Chapter Three: An Offer I Can’t Refuse
Chapter Four: Smelling as Sweet
Chapter Five: Backstories
Chapter Six: Tea with the Trevors
Chapter Seven: Places, Everybody. Places.
Chapter Eight: Durham Bound
Chapter Nine: The Old Homestead
Chapter Ten: Santa-
Proof
Chapter Eleven: Oh, Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood?
Chapter Twelve: It Takes Guts
Chapter Thirteen: Pickin’ Pigs and Pockets
Chapter Fourteen: Battlefield: School
Chapter Fifteen: The Eye of the Storm
Chapter Sixteen: The Lunchroom
Chapter Seventeen: How Do I Kill Thee? Let Me Count the Ways.
Chapter Eighteen: Deidre for the Block, Charlotte for the Steal, Holly for the Win
Chapter Nineteen: Jackson’s Dangerous
Chapter Twenty: Happy Holly Days
Chapter Twenty-One: What Gives?
Chapter Twenty-Two: Testing … Testing …
Chapter Twenty-Three: Scores
Chapter Twenty-Four: Fault Lines
Chapter Twenty-Five: Boom
Chapter Twenty-Six: Promises, Promises
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Too Little, Too Late
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Bottom of Things
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Arrivederci
Chapter Thirty: Nicki Doesn’t Live Here Anymore
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK
An imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
GREETINGS FROM WITNESS PROTECTION! Copyright © 2017 by Jake Burt. All rights reserved.
Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 ext. 5442 or by e-mail at [email protected].
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-250-10711-4 (hardcover) / ISBN 978-1-250-10710-7 (ebook)
Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto
First edition, 2017
eISBN 9781250107107
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