“Why not? He seems to be dying to meet me. And you’re working tonight, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Great,” she said. “Let’s go.”
She was out of the booth and at the door before I fished out the money to pay for my Coke. By the time I caught up with her, she was across the street and striding toward the community center.
“Hey!” I said. I grabbed her by the arm. She whirled around and smiled at me. “Hey, what if he’s some creepy stalker guy?” I said.
“He’s not going to do anything to me now,” she said. “There are people in there. And you’ll be with me.”
“Me?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to be around when Emily pulled her superior act on someone else, especially a guy like Mr. Henderson who, let’s face it, was pretty pathetic even if he was weird.
She grabbed me by the hand and hauled me inside. Teresa Rego was out in the main hall, tacking something to a bulletin board. She turned and looked at us.
“Everything okay, Mike?”
I nodded.
“Excuse me,” Emily said, flashing her pretty white rich-girl smile. “But have you seen Mr. Henderson?”
Teresa looked upset, I wasn’t sure why. “If he’s still here, he’s probably downstairs.”
“If?” I said.
“He just informed me that he quit. He’s leaving, with exactly no notice.”
Emily pulled me toward the stairs before I could say anything.
“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I said.
“You’re not scared, are you?”
“No. But what’s the point?”
She stopped on a landing and turned to me. “The point is, I don’t like some old guy taking an interest in me.” She pulled me down the stairs and through the door to the basement.
The basement was huge. Part of it was activity rooms. The pottery workshop was down there. So was a room that was painted black and used mainly by drama groups. They could make a lot of noise down there and no one heard them. But most of the basement was storage rooms and the boiler room, places like that. We found Mr. Henderson outside the boiler room—a big windowless place with a metal door. He had his back to us. A sports duffle bag sat on the floor at his feet. He was locking the door or unlocking it, I couldn’t tell which.
“Is that him?” Emily whispered to me. I nodded. “Hey!” she called. “Hey, you, Mr. Henderson.”
He turned slowly, twisting in a way that wouldn’t put too much pressure on his bad leg. He looked at Emily and his face went slack, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to believe it.
“Hey, I hear you want to meet me,” she said, all richgirl snotty now. “Well, here I am.”
Mr. Henderson said, “Emily.”
Just that—one word, her name—and the sassy expression vanished from her face. She peered at him and shook her head.
“I’ve been trying to find you,” he said. “And when I saw you here …” He bowed his head. “I was afraid to talk to you. And then you vanished again and I couldn’t find you. Jim’s not listed. And no one would tell me where he lived. I was going to go to your school, but …”
“You two know each other?” I said.
Emily was staring at him, her mouth hanging open, like she was in shock. She kept staring at him, but she said to me, “He killed my mother.”
I looked at Mr. Henderson again and, in my mind, I compared him to the faded picture I had seen in the newspaper clipping in Emily’s wallet. It wasn’t the same person at all.
“Emily, this is Mr. Henderson.”
“He’s Tom Howard,” she said, her eyes still firm on him. “He’s Tom Howard, and he murdered my mother and got away with it. But he’s not going to get away this time. The police are looking for you, Tom. They found the other body.”
“Emily,” Mr. Henderson said. Just the one word again. A name and a prayer.
“Murderer,” she said, her voice loud and shrill. “Murderer.”
She turned to look at me. “Go and find someone. Tell them to call the cops.”
“Jeez, Emily—” I still couldn’t believe it. But she seemed so sure, and he wasn’t denying it. And now that it was all over the news that the police were looking for Tom Howard, Mr. Henderson had quit his job. He hadn’t even given notice. Was he running away?
I heard something behind me, near the stairs. I saw Emily’s expression change when she turned toward the sound. She started to move back in that direction, away from Mr. Henderson.
“Emily,” he said again. “I didn’t do it.”
But she kept right on going. She never looked back. And as Mr. Henderson watched her go, the expression on his face changed too, from soft and kind of sad to something harder and colder. What was going on? As I turned to look, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Henderson out of the corner of my eye—he ducked down, unzipped his duffle bag, and rooted around in it. At the end of the hall near the stairs I saw Detective Jones. Teresa Rego was with him. She was pointing at Mr. Henderson. Detective Jones said something to her and she nodded. She stayed where she was. He came toward us, holding out his badge and ID.
“Thomas Henderson,” he said. “Police.”
Mr. Henderson straightened up slowly. He murmured something—it sounded like “Sorry”—and then grabbed hold of my arm. That’s when I saw what he had taken out of the duffle bag. It was a gun. You see a gun on TV or in a movie and it looks like no big deal. But when you see them on cops’ belts—which I have, several times—the first thing you notice is that they’re bigger and scarier than they look on the little screen or even the big one.
Detective Jones saw the gun too. “Hey now,” he said, sounding like a driving instructor or a judge at a flower show, he was that calm. But his eyes flitted from the gun to Mr. Henderson’s face and back again, like maybe he was trying to figure out if Mr. Henderson was going to use it and, if he was, when. And who exactly he was planning to shoot. “Hey, Tom … Is it okay if I call you Tom? I just want to talk to you, that’s all.”
I noticed more movement somewhere behind Detective Jones. It was Detective London, way down at the end of the hall. Detective Jones must have caught the look in my eyes because he glanced back over his shoulder.
Mr. Henderson tightened his grip on me. “Get rid of your gun and tell him”—Detective London, he meant—“to get rid of his,” he said to Detective Jones. “If either of you tries anything, I’ll shoot this kid.”
Me. He meant me.
Detective Jones studied Mr. Henderson for a moment. He said, “Tom, all we want to do is talk to you. Why don’t we keep it that way, okay? Put that thing away and we won’t have to—”
“Now,” Mr. Henderson said. He didn’t shout. He didn’t even raise his voice. But you could tell that he meant business. At least, I could. “Tell him you’re going to count to three,” he said. He meant Detective London. “Tell him when you get there, you’re both going to take out your guns with your left hands. Tell him you’re both going to unload your guns and then you’re going to slide them down here. You got that?” He pressed the barrel of his own gun into my neck so hard that I couldn’t help it, I let out a little yowl.
Detective Jones asked me if I was okay. I said I was. Then he called back over his shoulder to Detective London, telling him exactly what Mr. Henderson had said. He made sure Detective London knew about the gun that was digging into me, and I was grateful for that. I was also grateful that Detective Jones was standing in front of me instead of Detective London. I wasn’t sure Detective London would have been so careful to make sure I was all right. I could see from the look on his face, small as it was way down the hall, that he wasn’t thrilled about what was going on. But when Detective Jones got to three, I saw him pull out his gun, just like Detective Jones was doing, and unload it. Detective Jones watched me the whole time. I was sweating hard, and it was a good thing Mr. Henderson had such a tight grip on me because my knees were buckling.
; After his gun was unloaded, Detective Jones set it down carefully and slid it toward me. I felt it hit the toe of my left sneaker. Then I heard a skittering sound—metal on concrete—and Detective London’s gun slid down the corridor past Detective Jones.
“Kick them back to me,” Mr. Henderson said to me.
I did, and then he kicked them back behind him, into the boiler room. I heard them skid across the floor inside. After that, we all stood there. No one moved. I wondered what was going to happen next. What was he going to do?
I saw Emily halfway down the hall between the two detectives. She was pressed up against the wall like she was trying to make herself as flat as paper in case anyone started shooting.
“Okay,” Detective Jones said. He was looking hard at Mr. Henderson. “Okay, Tom. Now what do you want to do? You want to put that thing away so we can talk?”
Mr. Henderson didn’t want to do that. We all waited. Then Mr. Henderson said that what he wanted was Riel.
“Get him here,” he said. “You’ve got thirty minutes.”
He jerked me backward, through the boiler room door, into blackness. The door clanged shut. His fingers bit hard into my arm as he said, “Lock it.”
“What?”
“Lock it.”
It sounded like the end of the world when the deadbolt tchonked into place.
“The light,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Next to the door. The light.”
I felt around until I found the switch. A light came on overhead. I looked over at the door. It was heavy and metal and, as far as I could tell, it was the only way out.
Mr. Henderson jerked me deeper into the room, away from the door.
“Turn around,” he said. “Put your hands on the wall.”
I did what he said. I did everything he said. I put my hands flat against the wall where he could see them. I put my feet together and kept them together while he wrapped duct tape around them. I put my hands behind my back and let him tape my wrists together too. Then I squirmed around to face him when he told me to, and I sat down on the floor as best I could. Now what, I wondered. Maybe he read my mind. He said, “Now we wait.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thirty minutes. The time it takes to watch a sitcom on TV. A little less than half of a math class. Time that could zip by or creep by.
Mr. Henderson stood close to the door the whole time we waited, so that he could hear what was going on outside. He made me sit beside him so that he could watch me, not that I was going anywhere. If the duct tape people ever needed someone to go on TV and say how strong their product was, I was their man. I couldn’t even move my wrists, let alone work them free.
After a little while, I asked him how come he wanted to see Riel. He didn’t answer. I told him, “He’s not a cop anymore,” and he looked surprised, so I guess he hadn’t known that. It didn’t seem to change his mind, though. He stayed where he was, in front of the door, and waited.
I heard them even before I saw Mr. Henderson straighten—voices in the hallway on the other side of the metal door. But they were muffled, so I couldn’t make out at first what they were saying. Mr. Henderson pressed his ear to the door. His eyes were tight and focused on something I couldn’t see. Then I heard a voice, loud and clear. Detective Jones.
“Tom? John Riel is here.”
Then Riel identified himself so that Mr. Henderson would know that he was really there.
Mr. Henderson stepped back from the door a pace. He reached down and grabbed the front of my jacket.
“Get up,” he said.
He hauled me to my feet and pulled me over in front of the door. I had to sort of hop sideways to get there. He didn’t hurry me, and he didn’t get mad at me when I stumbled and he had to strain to keep me on my feet.
“Tom?” It was Riel’s voice again. “Tom, I need to know that Mike is okay.”
Mr. Henderson nudged me. He told me to answer Riel. I called out through the door that I was fine, that Mr. Henderson hadn’t hurt me.
“Okay, Tom,” Detective Jones said. “It’s good that the boy is okay. No one is hurt. That’s good. If you open the door, Tom, and let the boy out, we can work things out.”
“I want him to come in,” Mr. Henderson said. “I want John Riel to come in.”
For a moment there was complete silence on the other side of the door. Then I heard a hissing sound, like people whispering.
“We’ll have to get permission for that, Tom,” Detective Jones said. His voice sounded strained now. “John Riel isn’t a police officer anymore. We have policies that we’re supposed to follow. You understand that, right, Tom?”
Mr. Henderson had one hand clamped around my arm. In the other he held the gun.
“You have one minute,” he said, his voice sounding calm and clear. “John Riel comes in here, or I won’t be able to guarantee the boy’s safety.”
I felt myself go cold all over.
“I hear you,” Detective Jones said. “We want to do everything we can to make this work, Tom. But it’s going to take us a little longer than one minute—”
“Forty-five seconds,” Mr. Henderson said.
“Tom, I understand what you’re saying but—”
“I’ll come in,” Riel said.
Someone—Detective Jones, I think—said something that I couldn’t make out. Then I heard Riel’s voice. He said he was going in and that was that. Then he said to Mr. Henderson that he was ready.
Mr. Henderson made me stand right in front of him. He reached around me and unlocked the door. He pressed the gun into my ear, hard, and said to Riel that he could come in now, but he’d better come in alone or else.
I held my breath. The door inched open, and then there was Riel in the opening. I saw Detective Jones behind him and, farther back, Detective London and some other cops in uniform.
“Inside,” Mr. Henderson said. “Now.” He jammed the gun harder into my ear. I kept my mouth shut, but my eyes started to water. Jeez, I didn’t want Riel to think I was crying.
Riel pushed the door shut.
“Lock it,” Mr. Henderson said.
I heard the deadbolt slide into place. Mr. Henderson dragged me back from the door, keeping me in front of him, between him and Riel.
Riel turned around slowly, his hands up so that Mr. Henderson could see that he wasn’t armed. When he was finally facing us, he looked at me, not Mr. Henderson.
“You okay, Mike?” he said.
I nodded. My ear hurt. My knees felt wobbly. But, yeah, I was okay. So far.
Riel looked me over, like he wanted to see for himself. Then he looked past me, at Mr. Henderson.
“I don’t know what you want, Tom,” he said. “But I do know that it has nothing to do with this boy. You want a hostage, fine. I’ll be your hostage. But let the boy go.”
Mr. Henderson didn’t loosen his grip; he tightened it. “You shot Sarah. She was like a daughter to me, and you shot her and now she’s dead,” he said. He jammed the gun harder against my ear, and I couldn’t help it, I let out a yelp. Riel jumped a little. “You shot Sarah,” Mr. Henderson said again.
Riel stared at him. He had that look in his eyes, the same one he’d had the night he told me about what had happened—like a guy who had just been jolted awake from what he thought was a bad dream, only to find out that it hadn’t been a dream after all.
“I’m sorry about Sarah,” Riel said. Something in his eyes told me—told me for sure—that he was seeing what he had done, and that all the years since it had happened hadn’t faded the memory. If anything, time had just sharpened it.
“Mike’s just a kid, Tom,” he said. “He didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Then I was falling.
It probably took me a second or two to realize what was happening, and everything that happened after that probably took another few seconds. I was falling because Mr. Henderson had shoved me hard to one side, and with my ankles and hands taped, there was nothing I coul
d do to keep myself upright. I was dropping fast toward a concrete floor, and while I fell, I looked back at Mr. Henderson and saw his hand with the gun swing so that it was pointing directly at Riel. Then I hit. My elbow made contact first, followed by the rest of my body. It hurt so bad that my eyes teared up. But I forced myself to twist around and saw Mr. Henderson pointing his gun at Riel. I don’t know what I expected Riel to do, but I sure didn’t expect him to lower his hands and then to hold them away from his body the way he did, like he was saying, Okay then, go ahead, shoot, if that’s what you want.
Except that Mr. Henderson didn’t shoot. He stepped toward Riel, holding the gun out in front of him. At first I thought, He wants to get really close, boy, he wants to make 100 percent sure that he doesn’t miss when he shoots the guy who shot his stepdaughter.
But nothing happened. Mr. Henderson didn’t shoot and Riel didn’t move, except for his eyes, which shifted to Mr. Henderson. He looked at him, and I could see he was still remembering. His hands were down and he sort of shrugged. Then he tipped his head back a little and it hit me: He wants it to happen. I glanced at Mr. Henderson, who was closer to Riel now, so close that if Riel wanted to, he could reach out and grab the gun from Mr. Henderson’s hand. And I thought, Mr. Henderson wants it to happen too. He’s the same as Riel. But Riel still didn’t move. Then Mr. Henderson turned the gun on me. I saw his finger move, the one that was on the trigger. That’s when I said, “No.”
I don’t know if that’s what made Riel act, but he did. He stepped closer to Mr. Henderson and put his hand on the barrel of the gun and pulled it around so that it wasn’t facing me anymore, it was facing him. And I said, “No! It wasn’t your fault!”
They stood there for what seemed like an hour, but it was probably only a couple of seconds. Mr. Henderson was holding the gun by its grip, his finger still on the trigger, and Riel was holding it by the barrel, which was pointed directly at him. Mr. Henderson seemed to be waiting for something. Waiting for Riel to turn the tables on him, I realized. Riel was waiting too. So I said it again. “It wasn’t your fault, John.” When he still didn’t move, I said, “Please.”
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