Then the details hit me. Like, what would Dad do? Would he walk out the door or stay in the house and starve? What would happen to Dutch? What if this, what if that? All these details are making me tired. I’m not in the mood for this train of thought. I lift my foot off the clutch, pull the keys out of the ignition. I close the garage door, sneak back into the house, and put the keys on the hook.
Dad must have heard something because he calls me to come see what he found. He’s sitting on the kitchen floor with a pile of red-and-white packages piled up at his feet.
“Good news, Josh,” he says, holding up a prize. “-Twenty-four envelopes of dried milk.”
“That’s amazing, Dad,” I say. I turn around and head for my room. He says something about pancakes in the morning, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking that it isn’t the PODs and their death rays. It isn’t the empty refrigerator, or the soon-to-be-starving dog, or the baggies full of water on the kitchen counter.
It’s knowing that today is my birthday, Mom isn’t here, and I can’t check my freaking e-mail.
That’s what’s killing me.
DAY 8: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Hacker
A slamming sound wakes me.
I peer out. Two men are in the garage. My heart skips a beat. One is Hoodie, his face still dark as usual in the shadow of his hood. The other is the tall thin man with the tattoos and shiny head. He helped Hoodie get rid of Speed-Bump Guy. I saw him again the third day smashing windows with a big hammer. He wasn’t even searching the cars, just smashing windows. Back then he was wearing a tank top that showed off the tattoos on his arms. Now he’s wearing a collared blue shirt with long sleeves. It could be a uniform.
They’re standing under the light by the green exit door. Hoodie has a flashlight in one hand and a big hammer in the other. He shines the beam slowly around the garage. It moves to this end and stops. He points with the hammer. The tall guy nods and coughs. It’s rough and throaty, like he’s going to hack up a lung. When he’s done he reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it.
They weave through the maze of cars, talking and laughing. Hoodie swings the hammer, slamming it into taillights as he goes. The noise echoes around me, waking Cassie. She lets out a soft mew. I press her against my shirt. One more peep from her and in the sleeping bag she goes.
They’re close enough now for me to hear every word.
The bald man stops, hacks up something, and spits it out. Hoodie shakes his head and frowns. They start walking again. It’s hard to tell where they’re headed. I figure it’s one of the cars closer to the exit. They aren’t as banged up as the SUV.
Hacker says, “So, Richie, you gonna tell me what we’re lookin’ for?”
Hoodie has a name. Richie.
Richie says, “Guess.”
“It’s not money.”
A short laugh. “You got that right.”
“Drugs?”
Richie pounds another taillight. The next car is the Nova.
He says, “Drugs would be sweet, but no. Think about it. With the guests being so restless and all, what’s the most valuable commodity given our current sit-u-ation?”
“You ask me it’s smokes, man. A carton of Lucky Strikes would make my week.”
Richie’s at the Nova. He smashes one taillight, then the other. I feel each blow as if the hammer is hitting me.
He kicks at the broken glass. “I hate Novas. Knew a guy that had one. Sucked oil like a Slurpee. Couldn’t sell it so he set it on fire and walked away.”
Hacker says, “So it’s not money or drugs. Why did Mr. Hendricks send us out here at dark-thirty when we should be sleeping?”
Richie stops and looks at him. For a second I think he’s going to club Hacker with the hammer. Then he says, “Guns, you bald-headed dumb-ass. The Holy Grail!”
Hacker says, “But we found ’em all. Three pistols and a shotgun. That’s it.”
Richie says, “This is America, my friend. A garage this size—we should’ve filled a U-haul by now.”
A flashlight beam stabs through the window. Shadows chase each other across the door and roof. Quiet, like an otter into a river, I slide down to the floor space behind the backseat and curl into a ball. Cassie mews in protest. Her tiny claws rake against my ankles. I resist the urge to bury my head in the sleeping bag. I need to hear what they’re saying.
Hacker says, “I done the Navigator already. I’m positive there ain’t no gun.”
Richie says, “And I’ve got information con-tradicting that statement.”
The Navigator! A gun! My brain races—where?
Hacker says, “Like what?”
Richie says, “The lady that owns the Navigator needed asthma spray for her boy. She compensated Mr. Hendricks by telling him about a gun her husband stashes in the car.”
“Where’s it at?”
“In a safe under the driver’s seat.”
I picture the black metal box just two rows away from my head.
“A safe, huh? She give you the combination?”
“It needs a key. Says he hides a spare somewhere up front.”
“What if her information is wrong?”
“There’s gonna be an instant shortage of asthma medication.”
They laugh. Hacker goes into another coughing spasm. He’s so close I smell the smoke from his cigarette. He spits—it thuds like a meatball hitting the car. A flashlight beam scans the inside of the SUV. I duck my head into the sleeping bag but leave enough of a hole so I can hear. I’m hoping all they see is a pile of rags. The handle lifts on the front passenger door. It opens.
Richie says, “You broke this window, right?”
“Third day. Gotta love bustin’ up a Navigator.”
“You wipe the glass off the seat?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Well, it’s all on the floor now.”
The door slams closed.
I nudge Cassie with my foot. She moves, just barely.
Footsteps crunching toward the back. The rear passenger door opens.
Richie says, “You see all this crap? Comic books, a pile of clothes, looks like a sleeping bag on the floor?”
“Man, I boosted so many cars I don’t remember.”
“What do you remember?”
“A kitten in a cage.”
“A what?”
“A kitten in back. Scrawny little thing. Smelled like pee.”
“You left it?”
“I’m allergic to cats.”
Richie says, “That’s gen-u-ine sick, my friend. And you say I’m the mean one?”
The door slams shut. More footsteps. Now Richie says, “There’s a cage but no kitten. If I didn’t know better I’d say someone has built a little nest.”
Richie grunts. I figure he’s squeezing through the space between the SUV and the car it smashed into. Footsteps on my side of the car now. They move all the way to the driver’s door and stop.
There’s another sound. A voice yelling in the distance.
Richie says, “What’s he want?”
“He says the water’s off.”
“How’s that my problem?”
“Don’t know. But he wants us now.”
Richie says, “Yeah, well, I’m busy.”
The driver’s door opens. The SUV drops an inch. My heart pounds so hard my head hurts. My lungs are screaming for air, which makes me wonder about Cassie. If I can barely breathe, what about her? I want to poke her with my toe, but I don’t. Richie, his voice at floor level, says, “Bingo!” The SUV shakes. Shakes again, harder. Richie swears. He yells, “It’s locked!”
“Can you take the safe?”
“No. It’s welded to the floor.” A pause. I hear the click of his knife. Just that one sound makes my stomach clench like a fist. He says, “You going to stand there like an idiot, or help me find a key?”
The passenger door opens. They start tossing things around. The noise is like a hurricane. CD cases sna
pping, carpet ripping, coins dumped to the floor.
Then Hacker says, “Hey! What the—”
There’s a thud. He groans. I think he hit ground.
A new voice, deep, like rumbling thunder, says, “Go back to the hotel.”
That can be only one person.
Black Beard.
The SUV rises. Richie says, “What’s got your panties all in a bunch?”
Black Beard says, “Mr. Hendricks wants the men and women separated.”
“That a fact? Who goes where?”
“Men go to the tenth floor.”
Richie says, “Divide and conquer. So much for one big happy family.”
Silence.
“Do I get to super-vise the ladies?”
Silence.
“I’m sorry. Does this bother you?” I hear the click of his knife. “There, you feel better now?”
Silence.
Richie says, “You know, my friend, you should work on your attitude. Try to com-mu-nicate more. You’ll never be voted Security Guard of the Month the way you’re going.”
Silence.
Richie says, under his breath, “Always one damn crisis after another.” The door slams. Footsteps walk fast around the SUV. They fade into the distance.
I count two minutes. That’s all I can take. I jab my head out of the sleeping bag and take great gulps of sweet, cool air. I listen. Nothing but the buzz of the security light. I climb onto the seat, reach down to the bottom of the bag. There’s a warm ball of fur. It moves, then mews softly.
“Cassie!” I whisper, lifting her out and holding her to my chest. Her purring engine is already starting to fire. “That was a close one. We should be more careful.”
I don’t know how long they’ll be gone, so it’s time to act fast. I need to find that key. I’ve never fired a gun, but Zack let me hold his a couple of times. I think I can figure it out. Cassie curls up on the seat. I crawl up front and start looking.
It’s worse up here than it sounded. The window visors are snapped off and cut to shreds. The roof liner is slashed, and the radio is hanging by a wire. Even the door panels are pulled away from the frame. They did all this in less than a minute. I try to think of places they didn’t look, but it’s hard to imagine where. I use the flashlight pen to look behind and under things, but it feels like a waste of time and batteries. I’m about to switch off my light when I spot the black liner to the ashtray. It’s upside down next to the gas pedal. There’s a small bump on the side where it should be smooth. I pick it up. A strip of black tape is covering something. I peel back the tape and smile.
A silver key.
I glance over my shoulder at the green door. It’s closed and quiet, but who knows for how long. It’s almost midnight. Maybe they’ll decide to get some sleep before coming back. And maybe they won’t. I look under the driver’s seat, slide the key in the lock. It turns. I pull out the drawer. It’s padded with a thin layer of black foam. There’s a thick wad of folded-up fifties wrapped with a rubber band. A cell phone. And a black metal box. It’s like a mini-briefcase with a handle and a combination lock with four numbered dials. I lift it out of the drawer. It’s definitely big enough to hold a gun, and heavy enough, too. I leave the money and the phone but keep the briefcase. I close the drawer and start to lock it, but my brain flashes a picture of Richie smashing the taillights on the Nova. Mom will have to get that fixed and we don’t have any money. There goes our breakfast at Denny’s. That gives me an idea. It’s stupid, but I can’t stop. I find a piece of paper and use the flashlight pen to write a short note:
Guess what I’ve got.
Bang. Bang.
I slide the note under the money, close the drawer, and put the key in my pocket.
There’s some noise coming from behind the green door. Something is happening inside the hotel. The sound is muffled, but I think it’s screaming. I climb back to Cassie, carrying the black briefcase in my hand.
I pick her up. She’s warm and floppy from sleeping on my bag. Her eyes open.
“Look what I found,” I say, showing her my prize. “The Holy Grail.”
DAY 9: PROSSER, WASHINGTON
Contact
I’m watching the apartments across the street. I do this for hours, binoculars glued to my eyes while I sit in the comfy red chair I dragged over to face the living room window. It’s a fascination of mine ever since the gunshot episode. Not because I’m a sicko freak hoping to catch a murder in progress. I do it because it keeps my mind off the alternatives. I tell Dad I’m looking for changes in the POD. I even have a notebook that I use to write down bogus observations, like: 2:17pm – Subject slightly changed color or Subject moved five centameters to left, then fired blaster beam at old lady with red hat. Dad looks at the notepad from time to time. His only comment so far: “Centimeter is spelled with an i.”
I have a system. I start at the window on the bottom right and move across each floor until I reach the upper-left apartment on the third story. Some windows have curtains, some don’t. One lap takes me about fifteen minutes unless something interesting is going on, and that happened only once, not including the naked fat guy with the bullet holes. I saw a woman dancing in a white dress. She kept passing in front of the window, twirling and spinning, sometimes really shaking it up. I liked how she’d toss her head back and laugh, her long blond hair dangling down behind her, then flying out when she did one of her spins. I keep checking back, but there’s a curtain over the window now. Even if I never see her again, I’d say my time here is well spent.
I hear Dad moving around behind me. I put down the binoculars, check my watch, pick up the pad, and write: 4:38pm – POD reverses rotation and nearly crashes.
I pick up the binoculars and resume the search. The window on the second floor, three over from the right—it’s cracked and missing a shutter. Five years ago this apartment building was new and attractive with fresh white paint and green doors with matching shutters. Now it’s a dull brown, the grass in front is mostly weeds, and there’s usually some kind of trash out front blowing around in the wind. Moving to the right—nothing, nothing, then the old lady with the paisley scarves. She used to sweep the sidewalk in front of her door every morning. She’s married to the French guy—Henri—who fixed my bike last spring for twenty bucks. I think she’s watering a plant. She turns and walks away. I move on.
Third floor now, scanning left to right. It looks like a total bust—and bam!
She’s standing at the window looking through a pair of binoculars. I recognize her from the bus stop. Short blond hair, yellow backpack, wire-rimmed glasses. She was always off in her own world, her face buried in a book. I think she’s a freshman. I don’t know her name, but I think it’s Amanda or Aimee or something like that. There’s this unspoken rule at the bus stop—the apartment kids form one group, the house kids form another.
I think she’s looking at me. I raise my hand and wave. She waves back. She reaches down for something—a piece of paper. She starts writing, her hand moving in big sweeping arcs. Then she turns her head like someone said something to her—and she’s gone.
Two seconds later a tall, skinny dude with a patchy beard and no shirt looks out the window. He’s in his twenties, maybe early thirties. Definitely too young to be her father. I’ve seen him around the neighborhood once or twice. I think he drives an old pickup with a dirt bike in the back. He opens the window, spits, closes it, and walks away.
I wait for a few minutes. She doesn’t come back.
I put the binoculars on the windowsill and rub my eyes. My head hurts and I wonder why. Maybe it’s because I’m smiling. For a moment I had communication with another human being, one who isn’t obsessed with folding laundry.
DAY 9: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Dust, Dents, and Duct Tape
I put the gun case on the seat and take a deep breath. What should I do? Keep trying to open it to see if there really is a gun inside, or move to another car and then worry about the gun? The
metal is thick—I tried prying it open with the screwdriver, but that didn’t work. Same thing for picking the lock.
I glance at Cassie, hoping for some amazing words of wisdom. She looks up at me with big kitten eyes. Hungry eyes, I’m sure.
“Yeah,” I say, “you think I should move first, then get some food, then worry about the case.” That seems like a good plan. Richie is coming back, and I don’t want to be here when he does. A part of me wants to hide close by so I can see his face when he opens the drawer, but that would be stupider than leaving the note in the first place.
“You are a smart kitty,” I say. “It’s time to find us a new home.”
A flash of pain burns my heart. I remember Mom saying those exact words—find us a new home. It was only what, last week? But it feels like last year. I came home from school and her car was in the driveway. A little alarm started ringing in my head. She usually didn’t get off work until after supper. I looked through the windows. The red plastic cooler was on the floor in back, and on the back- seat there was a pile of clothes, mine and hers, along with a grocery bag full of snacks. The front passenger seat had two pillows and a stack of maps.
Mom was waiting for me when I walked into the house. The living room was thick with cigarette smoke. Her eyes were red and moist and her makeup was smeared. But whatever made her cry had turned into something else. Something hard. “It’s time to find us a new home,” she said, her voice steady. She told me I had fifteen minutes to pack the suitcase on my bed—then we were leaving. “Only bring the stuff you really need,” she said. “Don’t ask questions, there’ll be time for that later. And don’t stand there with your mouth hanging open. Just do it!”
I went into my room not sure what to think. We were running from Zack, that much I knew. But where to, and why now? The suitcase was on my bed, open and waiting. I looked around trying to figure out where to start, what parts of my life to keep and what parts to leave behind. Mom yelled, “Three minutes!” My mind was spinning, my hands shaking. Be calm, I told myself. Think! My sketching notebooks, keep. Stuffed koala from Zack, leave. Poster of ’57 Mustang, leave.
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