Fake ID

by Lamar Giles

  The mayor said, “Let’s talk in the car, Nick.”

  Another ride from a stranger. Great. I followed him through the station doors, on edge. When I spotted the car, I longed for Hill and the interrogation room.

  It was a dark blue BMW. The same one I’d seen outside of city hall. Mayor Burke was the guy Dad had been working for. The one he was afraid of.

  Me and Dad had something in common after all.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE CAR CHIRPED WHEN MAYOR BURKE deactivated the alarm. “It’s unlocked,” he said. “Go ahead and get in.”

  I could’ve run. Almost did. Sheriff Hill watched me from the station window the way a hyena watches a gazelle on Animal Planet. I wouldn’t have made it far on foot.

  The longer I hesitated on accepting his ride, the more Mayor Burke’s grin shifted to something less pleasant. “Get in.” Not to be mistaken for a request this time.

  I moved toward the Beamer. I palmed my cell and brought Mom’s number up on the contact menu, my thumb resting on Talk. Worst-case scenario, at least she’d hear my screams and know I didn’t just disappear from the face of the earth like people tended to do back in our old lives.

  Burke entered from the driver’s side, pressed the ignition button. The engine hummed while the automatic locks engaged with a volume that could’ve drowned a rock concert. At least that’s how it sounded to me.

  “I bet you want to know why I’m here.” He pulled into midday traffic.

  “Kinda.” Ghostly building reflections sailed across my smudge-free window.

  “Whenever an incident occurs at the schools, my office is notified. It’s a policy that was instituted shortly after the Virginia Tech massacre. Do you remember Tech? You would’ve been awful young.”

  I nodded.

  “When the call came in, it got routed through my secretary. I happened to see it pop on the shared server. When I noticed your name, I came right along.”

  That sounded plausible enough, but also rehearsed. A lot of detail without an answer mixed in. “That’s how, not why.”

  His fingers flexed around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Pardon me?”

  “That’s how you knew I was at the station. It doesn’t explain why you came.”

  A moment passed. He nodded like I’d asked him a yes-or-no question. “Your father works for me.”

  The way he admitted it with, like, no BS’ing, threw me. I played dumb, hoping my shock didn’t show. “My dad’s a discount accountant.”

  “Yes, which is what got my attention. The man’s good with numbers and I needed him on a special project.”

  “What project?”

  He turned off the main road, south. Away from school, and his offices at city hall, and my house. We were leaving town.

  I massaged the lock release button. This new stretch of road was wide, long, and clear. We accelerated to seventy and any thought of me making a dive for it was left in his dust.

  He said, “It’s complicated. Nothing for a child to worry about. But I have to tell you, your father is gifted.”

  “With numbers? So’s that vampire on Sesame Street.”

  “You underestimate him. Boys never understand just how difficult, and sometimes unpleasant, their father’s work can be. I know I didn’t. Mine was a carpenter, and I never appreciated the lengths he went to—how much blood and sweat he spilled—to provide for our family. Not until I was a provider myself. You’ll see one day.” He laughed at a joke I couldn’t hear. “If you’re lucky.”

  He slowed down as we approached a side street. Thick trees bordered it; between them I caught glimpses of exposed cinder blocks and partially finished walls. Construction equipment became visible through gaps in the tree line, faded yellow-and-green backhoes, bulldozers, and cement mixers. We passed a big caution sign attached to a wooden post on the shoulder: Hard Hats Required Beyond This Point.

  “What is this?” I asked. The asphalt snaked closer to the work area.

  “Progress, Nick. Progress.”

  He turned onto an unpaved track. The BMW bumped and bounced for about a tenth of a mile before the road opened up into a level patch of mud. Buildings in various stages of completion surrounded us. Most looked as close to being torn down as put up.

  “This is Stepton’s new municipal campus.” He brought the car to a stop and pointed to specific half structures. “Courthouse, police station, DMV, physical plant. Son, this is the new core of our town.”

  “Is this the project my dad’s helping you with?”

  “In part.” He silenced the engine and popped the locks. “Come on.”

  I got out of the vehicle while he disengaged another lock. The trunk. He went to the back of the car and the sounds of him rummaging around in there reminded me of plastic sheeting, shovels, and lye for disguising the signs of human decomposition. I shook off old memories of a ride gone wrong.

  The mayor lowered the trunk, held two royal-blue hard hats. “Here.” He passed one to me. “Rules are rules.”

  I put it on; he did the same. Mayor Burke walked me toward the skeletal frame of a building in midconstruction. “Welcome to the new city hall.”

  There was no activity on the site. I observed the machines—the ones with closed cabins for people to drive when they needed to dig and lift and push—a thin layer of grime was on the windshields and digger buckets and wheel treads. They hadn’t been moved in days. Or weeks.

  “Where are the workers?” I suddenly wanted there to be workers around.

  He sighed. “Unfortunately, this project has created cash flow problems for our city. My constituents look for me to be a steady hand on the till, something I can handle most of the time, but, on occasion, I need the assistance of a strong crew. That’s why I brought your dad in on this, to help us right the course.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was talking about money or sailing, but I was sure he didn’t answer my question. “No offense, but this doesn’t mean a whole lot to me. I’m just a kid. Like you said.”

  “Not just a kid. You’re James Pearson’s son. That’s why I brought you here. To show you how important your dad’s work is. So you can tell him how much Richard Burke appreciates him and wants him to continue on the path we started down together.”

  Burke faced me, gave me a smile that probably showed up on a lot of flyers and posters at election time. He stared thoughtfully into the distance. “I hope you’ll let him know that I’m looking out for him. I always look out for my friends.”

  This didn’t feel like he was doing me a favor. Or Dad. This felt like a threat. A subtle one.

  Screw subtlety. “Does this have anything to do with Whispertown?”

  The mayor’s fake-friendly tone blew away on the wind. “Did your father tell you that?”

  “No,” I said, improvising, “I was in his office and saw it on a piece of paper. When I asked him about it, he told me to mind my business. With what you told me, I figured it was related.” The best lies were the ones closest to the truth.

  Burke gathered himself. “You were right. That’s what we’re calling our little project and it’s best you keep it to yourself.”

  Whispertown struck a nerve. I didn’t know much more than I did before, but the connection was huge. Eli was researching it. He died. My dad was involved in it. He was scared. The sheriff was covering things up. He was pissed. The town’s freaking mayor was involved in Whispertown and he was . . .

  . . . trying hard to convince me he’s a good guy.

  Half-constructed buildings surrounded us. A lot of deep holes. A cement mixer ready to go. A locked shed with a big, red sign: Danger Flammable Chemicals.

  Someone who believed the mayor wasn’t being straight up could have an accident real easy.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “I bet. Why don’t I take you home?”

  “That�
�d be cool.” I handed over the hard hat, still thinking of construction site accidents.

  As the mayor drove us away, he said, “Your father ought to know about your run-in with the police today. Be honest with him so he doesn’t have to hear it from someone else. Word travels fast in small burgs like ours.”

  We took the rutted road to the main stretch leading back to town and I noticed a stone-and-mortar marquee that I missed earlier because it had been on his side of the car. An iron plate was mounted in the stone, ID’ing the new town center as: Burke Municipal Campus.

  No wonder this was such a big deal to the mayor. His name was all over it. Literally.

  “Is there something you want me to tell my dad? Specifically?” I asked, cutting through the crap.

  “Tell him Mayor Burke had his back when he needed it. Tell him Mayor Burke hopes he can count on the same.” He flicked on the satellite radio and some guy yelling about “civil liberties” and “big government” filled the cabin.

  The mayor bobbed his head like he was listening to good music.

  CHAPTER 25

  “MAYOR BURKE.”

  He downed the radio volume with a button on the steering wheel. “This is the way to your house, right?”

  “It is. But my bike’s at the school.”

  All business now, none of that who’s-yer-buddy stuff from before. “I suppose there’s time.”

  The mayor corrected his course and swung me by the high school. Classes were finished for the day, giving the building a desolate feel. A few stragglers remained for after-school activities like football, cheerleading, and band practice, along with the lost souls of detention and extra credit. The mayor pulled into the arching driveway by the bike rack.

  “Thanks, sir.” I exited the car, relieved to put some distance between me and him.

  The politician’s grin returned. “Remember what we talked about.”

  “Sure, I—”

  Yellow flashed from the corner of my eye and a familiar SUV double-parked next to the BMW. A horn blared and the mayor’s head wrenched to the left with enough force to suggest an invisible backseat assassin had snapped his neck. His window descended, as did the SUV’s.

  Dustin, organizer and promoter of the Dust Off, yelled, “Dad, what are you doing here?”

  Dad!?

  “I’m running an errand, Dustin,” said the mayor, “but I should be asking you the same question. You’ve been grounded. I would have expected you to be halfway to the house by now. Not loitering around the school with your friends.”

  Snickers from inside the SUV. Lorenz and Carrey.

  Dustin sputtered, all the ladies’ man, host-with-the-most confidence gone. “I-I just have to take the fellas home.”

  “That’s what school buses are for.”

  All snickering ceased. I was an awkward eavesdropper in this exchange, but I couldn’t walk away. Too many questions—too many connections—now. I wanted to hear everything.

  “Take them,” said the mayor. “Tomorrow, they arrange their own transportation. Losing your cell phone wasn’t enough, I see. Now I want your car keys. We’ll talk more this evening.”

  The BMW rocketed from the curb much faster than what was allowed on school grounds. Dustin leered at me, bright red circles flaring along his cheeks. More noticeable than his signs of embarrassment was the brighter—almost angry—bruising around his left eye.

  That was new.

  Something flickered in Dustin’s face, like he was fighting for control of his expressions. A sarcastic grin won the war. “I see you met the old man.”

  I nodded.

  “Need a ride? I’m already in for it bad.” His laugh, it sounded as natural as the cloned goat we learned about in science. “One more stop won’t hurt.”

  “I’m good, man. I’ve got my bike.”

  He was in motion before I finished.

  I stood there, blown by the day’s events. Dustin was grounded (for what?) and had lost his phone. That’s why I couldn’t reach him last night. Maybe he was still a good source of information, if I could ever get him alone.

  But the real head-scratcher . . .

  Dustin’s father—the guy who Eli went all cyberstalker on—was the town’s freaking mayor? Why didn’t I know that? How could I not have known?

  Easy answer: after almost a month, I was still the New Kid. Stepton’s history and family relations and clique dynamics were common knowledge to everyone else. Old news. No one talked about it. Not when there are hookups and new music and parties taking up the valuable conversation minutes between classes. I needed an insider to walk me through this.

  But first, Dad.

  The strip mall where my dad worked was called Picket Square. I cruised past the brick marquee entrance, pausing by three flagpoles side by side. The Virginia State flag, the American flag, and tallest, a pole featuring the flag of the Confederacy. Was that even legal? I looked around like I might see ghosts in gray uniforms saluting it. I felt like shouting to no one in particular, You lost! Get over it!

  Biking onto the empty sidewalk, I came upon the cleverly named Tax and Accounting Services storefront. Through the windows I saw two rows of bland half cubicles arranged along a center aisle that stopped at a manager’s office. Of the eight available desks, only three were occupied, one of them by Dad. There were no customers.

  Dad sat at his desk, chin propped in his palm and his eyelids fluttering. He looked like Homer Simpson dozing at the power plant. I dropped my bike and entered, triggering door chimes, and was struck by the strength of the garlic shrimp smell from the No. 1 Chinese Restaurant next door.

  Dad jerked awake, saw me, got all stony faced. I stepped back outside and waited.

  Door chimes sounded as he joined me on the sidewalk. He said nothing. Did he know about Keep Quiet, too?

  “Fine,” I said. “I already know you’re not going to tell me anything you don’t want to tell. So listen. I got picked up by the sheriff today”—his mouth ticked—“and he told me he knows we’re in the Program. Your buddy the mayor sprung me from jail as a personal favor to you. I thought you should know.”

  I hopped on my bike and pedaled away slowly. I made it ten yards before he yelled, “Nick, get back here. Right now!”

  I made sure to stop smiling before I turned around.

  We sat in the restaurant next door with a plate of untouched House Lo Mein resting between us. When I finished, he looked stunned.

  “‘Tell him Mayor Burke’s got his back,’ he said that?”

  “Yep.” I twirled some noodles with my chopsticks.

  “And this was at the municipal campus site?”

  I nodded again, preparing to shovel food into my mouth.

  “Did he threaten you, or your mother?”

  I let my eating hand rest a moment. “Did you hear my story? He didn’t threaten us in a, like, superobvious way. His way was worse. It was—”

  “Slick.” He lowered his head, his hand clenching and unclenching as if he were trying to work his knuckles through the skin.

  “Dad, as much as I want to know what you’ve done to get on the mayor’s bad side, I’m a little more concerned about the sheriff knowing”—my voice lowered reflexively though no one was around—“about the Program. Isn’t that the one thing Bertram, and you, and Mom said can never happen?”

  His breathing quickened. “Have you told your mother any of this?”

  “No, I haven’t seen her yet. I—”

  “Listen to me. You cannot mention a word of this to her. Not. One. Word.”

  “Because you’re going to tell me why I’m keeping secrets for you?”

  He leaned in. Food steam misted his forehead. “Because I’m your father and you do as I say.”

  I jammed noodles into my mouth, then talked as I chewed because he hated that. “Don’t tell me everything. Tell me the rest. What’s the purpose of Whispertown? Why are you and the mayor manipulating the town’s crime stats?”

  He jerked. “What? Where
did you hear that word?”

  “Whispertown? My friend Eli told me.” I dropped the bomb on him Modern Battlefield style. “Before he was killed.”

  I waited for the reaction. Guilt. Or Rage.

  His face remained blank, revealing nothing. “I thought that kid committed suicide. Did Hill tell you something different?”

  “Hill? You know him?”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Yes, I mean, no. But he agrees, kind of.” I struggled for words. Whatever my expectations had been, we were in the alternate version.

  “Cops will play with your head. They tell you stories to trip you up. I don’t know what that low-pay deputy—”

  “Sheriff.”

  “Whatever. I don’t know what game he’s running, but if something happened to that boy, which I doubt, it’s not because of anything between me and Burke.”

  “Why do you doubt it? You didn’t know Eli. He was going to be this big-time journalist.”

  Dad’s eyes went glassy, like a doll’s eyes. I knew the look from when he and Mom fought. This was the point where he completely abandons the conversation. “Uh-huh” and random-head-nod mode followed.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, nodding his head. He balled his napkin, tossed it on his empty plate. “Go home. I’ll take care of the mayor.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  He stood. “We’re done.”

  “Take care how?”

  “That’s not your concern. He should’ve never brought you into it. If that’s how he wants to play it . . .”

  “Play what, Dad? Eli—”

  His fist hit the table like something falling from space, rattling the plastic plates and utensils. And me. A lady in a soiled apron emerged from the kitchen and started ranting in Chinese. Though we’d already paid, Dad tossed a twenty on the table, which quieted her.

  To me, he spoke in a whisper more seething than a shout. “Whatever you think you’re doing, shut it down. You’re a kid. At your age, everything that pops in your head seems clever and important. It’s not. I’m sorry that your buddy took the emergency exit on life, but that’s not my concern.”