by Harlan Coben
"A childhood lost for children," I said. "That phrase makes more sense now."
Ema nodded. "There's more."
I waited. The restaurant was bustling. People coming and going, enjoying their food, laughing or texting or whatever it is people do at restaurants. But for us, they were gone now. The room was just this booth--just Ema and me and the ghost of some brave, long-dead girl named Lizzy Sobek.
"I did all kinds of searches on those numbers--the ones on the bottom of the tombstone and on that license plate," Ema said. "The A30432. But I came up with nothing."
I sat very still. If she had ended up with nothing, there wouldn't be tears in her eyes.
"So I read more about Lizzy Sobek," Ema said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a piece of paper. "I found one of those Q and A sites on her life." She unfolded the paper and slid it across the table.
I took it from her. Ema looked off. I turned my attention to the paper:
Question 8: What was Lizzy Sobek's concentration camp tattoo ID number?
It remains unknown. Most people mistakenly believe that every person in a Nazi concentration camp was tattooed, but in truth, the Auschwitz concentration camp complex (including Auschwitz 1, Auschwitz-Birkenau, and Monowitz) was the only location in which prisoners were systematically tattooed during the Holocaust. On September 12, 1942, Lizzy, along with her father, Samuel, her mother, Esther, and her brother, Emmanuel, boarded a transport to Auschwitz-Birkenau. The transport arrived in Auschwitz on September 13, 1942, with 1,121 Jews on board. Men and women were separated. The women selected from this transport, including Lizzy and Esther, were marked with tattoos between the numbers A-30380 and A-30615. Records indicating their exact numbers have not been preserved, so to this day, the number Lizzy Sobek bore on her forearm remains a mystery.
I looked up at Ema and now I had tears in my eyes too. "Have we solved this particular mystery?"
"We may have."
"Which leads to another."
Ema nodded. "How would Bat Lady know the exact same number?"
"And why would she have a tombstone for her in her backyard?"
"Unless . . ."
Ema stopped. We both knew what she was thinking, but I don't think either of us was ready to say it out loud. Maybe we had solved a mystery deeper than a tattoo number. Maybe, after all these years, we had solved the mystery of what really happened to Lizzy Sobek.
chapter 17
THE NEXT MORNING, I called my mother at the Coddington Institute. The operator said, "Please hold."
There were two rings and then the phone was picked up. "Mickey?"
It wasn't my mother. It was the rehab's director, Christine Shippee. "I want to talk to my mother."
"And I want to take a shower with Brad Pitt," she said. "Sorry, I told you, no contact."
"You can't just cut her off from me."
"Uh, yeah, Mickey, I can. Speaking of which, we need to talk. Do you know what an enabler is?"
Again with that question. "I didn't give her the drugs."
"No, but you're being a candy ass about this. You need to be tougher on her."
"You don't know what she's been through."
"Sure I do," she said as though stifling a yawn. "Her husband died. Her only son is growing up. She has no prospects. She is scared and lonely and depressed. What, you think your mother's the only one in here with a sob story?"
"Your sympathy," I said, "is overwhelming. No wonder the patients love you."
"I was one of them, Mickey. A manipulative addict. I know how it works. Come by next week and we'll talk more. In the meantime, get to school."
She hung up.
At school, most of the morning was taken up with an assembly program. I don't really remember much of what was being said. Two local politicians tried to "relate" to us, which made for serious condescension and boredom. I spent the time glancing around the room and locking eyes with Rachel.
When lunchtime came, I sat at what was fast becoming our usual table with Ema. Spoon was nowhere to be found. Ema and I tried, for once, to talk about the new movie releases or what music we liked or what TV shows were our favorites--but we kept steering back to the Holocaust and a heroic girl named Lizzy Sobek.
At one point I looked across the room and spotted Troy and Buck. Not surprisingly they smirked at me. Troy had a cocky I-know-something-you-don't-know look on his face and then he started flapping his arms like wings and making an eek-eek noise.
"A bat," Ema finally said.
"As in Bat Lady."
"Man, he's clever."
I guessed that his father had told him about my arrest near Bat Lady's house and this was his subtle way of communicating this to us. I responded by pantomiming a yawn. Troy glared when I did that, and then he used his finger to cut across his neck, the international dumbwad sign for, yup, "You're a dead man."
Not worth it. I turned away.
"Do you know where Spoon is?" I asked Ema.
I had caught her mid-chew, so she gestured behind her. Spoon was hurrying over to the table--sprinting really--with an open laptop in his arms. Ms. Owens blocked his path and said, "Walk, don't run."
Spoon nodded and apologized. When he reached us, he was wide-eyed and out of breath. "Shocking," Spoon said.
"What?"
Spoon put the laptop on the table. "Oh boy, you are so going to want to see this."
"What is it?" I asked.
He frowned. "Didn't you ask me to check the surveillance video of Ashley's locker?"
"Right."
"Well, I've been going through it since last night. You are not going to believe what I found."
The bell rang. Everyone started for the door, except for the three of us. Spoon sat down in front of the laptop. I pushed my chair over so I was on his immediate right. Ema did likewise so she was on his left.
"Okay," he started, "so I was doing what you asked--checking the video, right? I started with that hooligan breaking into the locker, and then I traveled back from there until I found the last time that Ashley's locker was open."
He stopped, pushed up his glasses.
"And?" I said.
"Watch."
Spoon was about to hit the computer key when Ms. Owens cleared her throat in dramatic fashion.
"The bell rang," she said in a clipped voice.
"We'll be just a minute," I said.
Ms. Owens didn't like that response. "We don't operate on your time, Mr. Bolitar. The bell has sounded. That means you leave the room. You aren't special."
Was she kidding me?
I tried an old standard: "It's schoolwork."
"I don't care if it is a cure for cancer," Ms. Owens said--and on that, I believed her. She slammed the laptop closed, making Spoon gasp out loud. "You had all lunch period to discuss this matter. Move along now or you'll all be in detention."
"You assaulted my laptop," Spoon said.
"Excuse me?"
"You assaulted my battery or whatever they call it."
"Are you challenging my authority, young man?"
Spoon opened his mouth to say more, so I kicked him just hard enough to get him to close it again. I stood, pulling Spoon along with me. The three of us left the cafeteria. In the corridor we quickly discussed what classes we had next. I had English. Spoon had study hall. Ema had "PE, which I'm going to cut anyway."
Spoon rushed us over to a janitor's closet on the lower level. We huddled around the laptop again. Spoon hit the start key and said, "Watch."
And there it was.
Ashley's locker. Spoon had it cued up right where it needed to be--right as the locker was being unlocked. We all watched in silence while the locker was cleaned out, all the possessions dumped into a backpack.
My jaw dropped open.
"I knew it!" Ema said. "I warned you, didn't I?"
It wasn't Ashley clearing out the locker. It wasn't Antoine or Buddy Ray or his big bouncer Derrick. The person who opened up the locker with the combination and cleane
d it out was none other than Rachel Caldwell.
First, there was confusion, but that almost immediately gave way to anger.
I was furious. I was beyond furious. I not only felt betrayed, but I felt like the dumbest sort of sap. We get mad at those who hurt or deceive us--we get even madder when they make us feel like fools.
Right now I felt like a great big sucker.
Rachel Caldwell had batted her big blue eyes at me, and I fell for it.
Grab your thesaurus, boys and girls. Sap. Loser. Sucker. Fool. Me!
I played back Rachel's every smile, every coy look, every little laugh.
Phony. All so phony. How had I fallen for her act?
Ema could not have looked more pleased. "I told you that we couldn't trust her."
I said nothing.
Spoon pushed his glasses up. "Whatever you saw on this video doesn't change the main fact."
"What fact is that?" Ema asked.
"That Rachel Caldwell is a first-class, teeth-melting, jawdropping, knee-knocking hottie."
Ema rolled her eyes.
The late bell rang. It was time to move. We broke up, Spoon and I going to our respective classes, Ema going . . . wherever it was she was going. I had Mr. Lampf for English. I sat in the back and opened up my notebook, but I can't tell you anything else about the class. I was still consumed by fury. Finally, after some time had passed, I allowed the obvious, more important question to break through my cloud of anger: What could Rachel Caldwell possibly have to do with all this?
I trotted out about a million different scenarios, but none of them made any sense. Logic wasn't working for me, so I let the rage back in. The rage was good right now. The rage reminded me that Rachel Caldwell was in this very building at this very moment. The rage reminded me that I could confront her and then I would find it all out.
When the bell rang, I hurried toward the door. I knew that Rachel had math with Mrs. Cannon right now. I knew that because, well, I just did. Mrs. Cannon's class was only halfway down this same corridor. I often caught glimpses of her in the hallway between this class and the next. Sue me, I looked, okay?
I headed into the corridor and turned right.
There she was. Rachel was turning away from me, her hair seeming to move in perfect slow motion, like in a shampoo ad. I rushed after her, swimming through the throngs of fellow students. She was about to turn the corner when I reached her. I put my hand on her shoulder, maybe a little too roughly. She turned, startled, but when she saw it was me, her face broke into a gorgeous, gut-punching smile.
"Hey, Mickey!" she said as if she couldn't be happier to see me.
Someone should give this girl an Oscar.
"Where's Ashley?"
The smile fell off Rachel's face like an anvil. She tried to get it back, but now it only stayed on in flickers. "What do you mean?"
"You opened her locker, and you took everything out of it. Why?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Boy, how did I not see through her before? She wasn't even a convincing liar.
"I saw you," I said.
"That's impossible."
"On the surveillance camera. I saw you open Ashley's locker and clear it out."
Her eyes shot to the right, then to the left. "I have to go to class."
Rachel started away from me. Working more on instinct than reason, I reached out and grabbed her arm, holding her in place.
"Why did you lie to me?"
"Let go of me."
"Where's Ashley?"
"Mickey, you're hurting me!"
I let go then. She pulled her arm back and rubbed where I'd grabbed near the elbow. People walked past us, whispering.
"I'm sorry," I said to her.
"I have to get to class."
She started to walk away.
"I'm not going to let this go, Rachel."
She stopped and looked at me again. "I can explain."
"I'm listening."
"Meet me after school. Alone. No Ema or Spoon. I'll tell you everything."
And then she was off again.
chapter 18
THE REST OF THE SCHOOL DAY went by slowly. I kept staring at the clock, but it felt as though the minute hand were bathed in syrup. I tried to figure out how Rachel could be involved, but nothing came to me. Then I reminded myself that it was pointless to speculate, that in just a few more hours I would know.
There were only five minutes left before the end of school--five minutes until I could get back to Rachel and hear her explanation--when the intercom in Mr. Berlin's physics class beeped. He picked it up, listened, and then said, "Mickey Bolitar? Please report to Mr. Grady's office."
The class gave me a collective "ooo."
I hadn't met Mr. Grady yet, but I knew who he was. First and foremost in my mind, Mr. Grady was the school's varsity basketball coach. He was a man I hoped to soon know quite well. But the reason for the class's "ooo" had to do with his real job: vice principal in charge of discipline--in short, the school's disciplinarian.
I collected my things and started for the front office. I wasn't nervous. My firm belief, immodest as this might sound, was that Mr. Grady wanted to welcome me to the school. Yes, I had worked hard to keep my game under wraps, but what with my height, my pedigree as Myron's nephew, and the way the guys down at the pickup games in Newark gossiped, it would be surprising if Mr. Grady hadn't at least heard about me.
That, I hoped, was the reason for calling me down to his office.
Or was it?
Had I done anything wrong? I didn't think so. I thought about grabbing Rachel in the hallway. Suppose someone had seen that. Nah, that couldn't be it. What would a witness do? Go to Grady's office and tell him? And then what? He'd contact Rachel and she would tell him it was nothing.
Or would she?
I got to his office and knocked on the door.
"Come in."
I opened the door. Mr. Grady sat at his desk and peered at me over his reading glasses. His suit jacket was off. He wore a short-sleeve dress shirt that probably fit a few years ago, but now it worked like a tourniquet around his neck and torso. He stood and hoisted his belt up. His pants were olive green. His hair was heavily thinning, pulled back and plastered to his scalp.
"Mickey Bolitar?"
"Yes."
"Sit down, son."
I glanced at the clock behind him. I really didn't have time for this now. School let out in two minutes--two minutes until I confronted Rachel again. He saw my hesitation and said, "Sit down," with a little more authority. I sat.
"Do you play ball?" he asked.
Ah. So I was right. "Yes."
"Your uncle was some player."
"Yes, so I've heard."
Grady nodded. He put his hands on his stomach. I wanted to move this along but I wasn't sure what to say.
"When are tryouts?" I asked, just to say something.
"In two weeks," he said. "The varsity--that's for my juniors and seniors--will be on Monday. The JV--that's for the sophomores and freshmen--will be on Tuesday." He met my eye and said, "I don't believe in playing sophomores on varsity, except in very rare instances. In fact, in the twelve years I've been coaching here, I haven't had a sophomore on varsity yet, and with so many returning starters . . ."
He didn't finish the thought. He didn't need to. I had learned a long time ago that you shouldn't talk about your game--your game should do the talking for you. So I nodded and said nothing.
The final bell rang. I started to stand, figuring we were done, when Mr. Grady said, "But that's not why I called you down here. I mean, this isn't about basketball."
He waited for me to respond, so I said, "Oh?"
"I received a report that you got into a physical altercation with another student." I must have looked confused. "Troy Taylor. In the school parking lot."
Oh boy. I debated going with the he-started-it defense, but beginning a relationship with a new basketball coach by going after his cap
tain seemed an unwise move. I went with silence.
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
"It was nothing," I said. "A misunderstanding. We moved past it."
"I see." He sat back down and fiddled with his pen. "I don't know where you went to school before here, Mickey, but at this school, we have a strict no-fighting rule. If you lay a hand on another student, it's automatic suspension with a possibility for expulsion. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir."
I couldn't help it. My eyes glanced at the clock. Grady saw it.
"Someplace to go, son?"
"I'm supposed to meet a friend after school."
"That's not going to happen today."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm letting you off easy with this one. Detention. Today."
"It can't be today," I said.
"Why not?"
"I have a really important meeting after school."
"You're currently staying with your uncle, correct?"
"Yes."
Mr. Grady picked up the phone on his desk. The phone was big and heavy and looked like something you'd see in a black-and-white movie on cable. "Maybe you can give me his phone number. I can call and explain why you'll be late. If he says it's an emergency and you can't serve it today, fine, you can serve detention tomorrow."
Panic made my mouth start flapping: "Troy took my friend's laptop. He grabbed me first. I just defended myself."
Grady cocked an eyebrow. "That really the way you want to play this, son?"
No. I calmed myself. There was really no option here. I asked whether it was okay for me to send a quick text before serving detention. Grady said that it was. I texted Rachel that I'd be out in an hour and could she please wait for me?
No reply came in.
I had never done detention before, but then again I'd never spent time in an American high school. I wasn't sure what to expect, but it was basically one hour of pure boredom. You sit in the driver's ed classroom with other students. No phone, no gadgets, no books, nothing. Most kids put their heads on the desk and took naps. I looked for patterns in the tile floor. Then I started reading all the posted safety information on drinking and driving, texting and driving, speeding, and whatever else could happen.
I thought about my dad. I thought about our car crash and wondered if the driver of the SUV was drunk or texting or speeding. I thought about the paramedic with the sandy hair and the green eyes and how his face told me that my life would never be the same.
