The Hunted (28 page)

Twenty minutes later, Shy was sitting on top of the makeshift border, between two armed guards in military fatigues, staring at the blank notepad in his lap. He was supposed to write stuff down for the FBI director. But there was so much. He had no idea where to start.

He lifted his head and looked out over the river. The sun had fallen behind the desert to the west, but the sky was still light enough that Shy could see the calm waters and the masses of people still suffering on the other side. They were sitting in groups around bonfires near the river's edge, waiting for the vaccine to be distributed, waiting for the wall to come down. But it wasn't only the survivors Shy saw now, it was those he'd lost, too. Friends from the ship like Rodney and Kevin and Marcus. His entire family, aside from his dad. Miguel. His sister and grandma.

A lump climbed into Shy's throat as he pictured his mom waving goodbye to him from the couch.

Shy suddenly didn't feel so good about being on the safe side, removed from all the suffering. He may have dogpaddled across the night before, but he'd left his heart on the other side. He glanced at the camp behind him. People dressed in clean clothes and moving leisurely around large tented areas. People eating and drinking at picnic tables near the food trucks. Talking.

Shy pushed away the guilt and uncapped his pen and held it over the first page of the pad, trying to imagine how Shoeshine had decided what to write. He remembered the title that started the man's journal, and he wrote down two simple words of his own and stared at them. Then he wrote about the ocean's whispering, and the sailboat, and the excitement he felt when he first spotted the California shoreline. And he wrote about Carmen and Marcus and Shoeshine.

Soon he had filled half a page, and he looked it over, fingering the key around his neck. He glanced up at the people stooped over fires on the other side, then stared at the river again. It was about twenty-five feet below where he sat, but he could still hear its subtle whispering. Something Shoeshine told him popped into his head. All along, the man had said, people had been following Shy. It still seemed pretty hard to believe, but what if Shoeshine was partly right?

Shy pulled Shoeshine's map out of his pocket and stared at the spot just outside of Blythe where they'd left the man behind. He drew in a single line where he and Carmen had continued on. Then he smoothed out the map and stuck it inside his pad and looked at his words again. They didn't seem quite right. But like Shoeshine had said about his own words, no one person can own the truth. Shy looked at the two guards. And he looked back at camp. Then he did something that surprised even him. He tucked the notepad under his arm and stood up and peered down at the river, butterflies suddenly flapping around in his stomach and chest.

“Hey!” one of the guards shouted.

They both started lumbering toward him.

Shy sucked in a deep breath and held it and leaped off the fence.

And on his way down he could hear the guards yelling, and he could smell the bonfires, and he could still picture Carmen's hand reaching out for the ring, which he knew was important. He had no idea what he was doing, or how he'd explain it, or what he planned to do once he got to the other side. He just knew it was where he had to go. To see if anyone would follow. To see if anyone would help fix this. And suddenly his body slapped the river's surface and he let go of the notebook and pen and concentrated on the familiar cold that spread its arms out around him, pulling him home.

Much gratitude goes out to the folks who've helped me turn a bunch of rough ideas into an actual book. Krista Marino, who's been my editor, friend and artistic guide for a full decade now. Steve Malk, the most creative, thoughtful, loyal, badass agent in the business. All the supportive and passionate people at Random House, especially Beverly Horowitz, Dominique Cimina, Monica Jean, Lydia Finn, Lauren Donovan (still), Lisa Nadel, Adrienne Waintraub, and Lisa McClatchy (I love you, Random House!). Matt Van Buren, for always being my first reader. Celia Perez, for double checking my español. My amazing wife, Caroline, for her incredible support and belief (and for making me smile every single day!). The rest of my family: Caroline, Al, Roni, Amy, Emily, Spence, the Suns and the newest addition, Luna Grace de la Peña, our beautiful daughter who showed up in the middle of this book and stole my heart (and my sleep!). Last but not least, I'd like to thank all you educators and booksellers out there who make a special effort to get great diverse literature into the hands of not only diverse readers but every reader.

The Hunted
is Matt de la Peña's sixth novel and the sequel to
The Living,
for which he received the Pura Belpré Author Honor Award. He attended the University of the Pacific on a basketball scholarship and went on to earn a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing at San Diego State University. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he teaches creative writing. Look for Matt de la Peña's other books,
Ball Don't Lie, Mexican WhiteBoy, We Were Here, I Will Save You,
and
The Living,
all available from Delacorte Press. Visit him at
MattDeLaPena.com
and follow
@mattdelapena
on Twitter.

Excerpt copyright © 2013 by Matt de la Peña. Published by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

Shy stands alone on the Honeymoon Deck. Cooler full of ice-cold water bottles strapped across his chest.

Waiting.

It's day six of his first voyage as a summer employee of Paradise Cruise Lines. Towel Boy at the Lido Deck pool by day. Water Boy at night. But the money's good. Like, game-changing good. He calculates again how much he'll have pulled by the time school starts back up. Three eight-day voyages, plus tips, minus taxes. Be enough to help his mom out and still score some new gear and a pair of kicks, maybe take a female out to dinner.

Shy moves to the railing, picturing that last part.

Him with a girl on an actual date.

He'd get a reservation at a nice spot, too. Cloth napkins. Some fine girl sitting across from him in the classy-ass booth. Maybe Jessica from the volleyball squad. Or Maria from down the street. All eyelashy smiles as whatever girl glances at him over her menu.

“Get whatever you want,” he'd tell her. “You ever had surf 'n' turf? For real, I got you.”

Yeah, he'd play it smooth like that.

When it's overcast at night, the moon above the cruise ship is a blurry dot. The ocean is black felt. Can hardly tell where the air ends and the water starts up.

You can hear it, though.

That's another thing Shy never would have thought before he landed this luxury cruise gig. The ocean talks to you. Especially at night. Whispering voices that never let up, not even when you sleep.

It can start to mess with your head.

Shy spots a passenger stepping out of the Luxury Lounge. The thick glass doors motor open long enough to let out a few notes from the live orchestra. Inside there's a formal event going on called the Beacon Ball. Harps and violins and all that. Hundreds of dressed-up rich folks drinking champagne and socializing. Shy's job tonight is to offer water to anyone who steps outside for air.

Like this dude. Middle-aged and balding, dressed in a suit two sizes too small.

Shy moves in quick with his cooler, asking: “Ice-cold bottle of water, sir?”

The man looks at the sweating bottle for a few seconds, like it confuses him. Then a grin comes over his face and he digs into his wallet. Holds a folded bill toward Shy between two veiny white fingers.

“Sorry, sir,” Shy tells him. “We're not supposed to—”

“Says who?” the man interrupts. “Take it, kid.”

After a short pause, for show, Shy snatches the bill and buries it deep inside his uniform pocket. Like he always does.

The man uncaps the water bottle, takes a long swig, wipes his mouth with the arm of his suit jacket. “Spent my entire life trying to get to this place,” he says without eye contact. “Top scientist in my field. Cofounder of my own business.” He looks at Shy. “Enough money to buy vacation homes in three different countries.”

“Congratulations,
sir—”

“Don't!” the man snaps.

Shy stares at him for a few seconds. “Don't what?”

“Don't tell me what you think I want to hear.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Say something real instead. Tell me I'm fat.”

Shy glances at the ocean, confused.

The guy's definitely fat, but if Shy's learned anything during his first six days on the job, it's that luxury cruise passengers don't want anything to do with real. They want a pat on the back. “Tell a dude how great he is and get paid.” That's his roommate Rodney's motto. But this guy isn't fitting the formula.

The man sighs, asks Shy: “Where you from, anyway, kid?”

“San Diego.”

“Yeah? What part?”

Shy shifts the cooler from his left side to his right. “You probably never heard of it, sir. Little place called Otay Mesa.”

The man laughs awkwardly, like it pains him. “And you're trying to
congratulate
me?” He shakes his head. “How's that for irony?”

“Excuse me?”

He waves Shy off and re-caps his bottle. “Trust me, I know Otay Mesa. Right down there by the border.”

Shy nods. He has no idea what the guy's getting at, but Rodney warned him about this, too. How eccentric luxury cruise passengers can be. Especially the ones whose front teeth have already turned pink from too much red wine.

It's quiet for a few seconds, Shy readying himself for his exit, but the man turns suddenly and points a finger in Shy's face. “Do me a favor, kid.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Remember this cowardly face.” The man taps his own temple. “It's what corruption looks like.”

Shy frowns, trying to find the logic.

“This is the face of your betrayer. Me, David Williamson. Don't you ever forget that! It's all in the letter I left in the cave.”

“Not sure I'm following, sir.”

“Of course you're not following.” The man uncaps his water bottle again and turns to the ocean. He doesn't drink. “I've made a career out of hiding from people like you. But tell me this, kid: how am I supposed to go on living with all this blood on my hands?”

Shy abandons his search for meaning and focuses on the guy's comb-over. It's one of the more aggressive efforts he's ever seen. The part starts less than an inch above the left ear and dude's expecting a few wiry strands to cover a serious amount of real estate.

Maybe that's what he means by “hiding.” Down to three defiant hairs and still believing he has that shiny-ass dome fully camouflaged. It reminds Shy of little-kid logic in a game of hide-and-seek. How his nephew Miguel used to bury his face in a couch cushion, thinking if he couldn't see you, you couldn't see him either.

Shy hears flutes and harps again and turns his attention to two older women who've just come out of the lounge in sparkling party dresses. They're both laughing and holding their high heels in their hands.

“Hello, ladies,” he says, moving toward them. “Care for an ice-cold bottle of water?”

“Oh yes!”

“Honey, that sounds marvelous!”

He hands over two bottles, amazed that wealthy women can get so worked up over free water.

“Thank you,” the taller one says, leaning in to read his name tag. “Shy?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Now, that's a curious name,” the other woman says.

“Well, my old man's a curious guy.”

They all laugh a little and the women open their waters and take well-mannered sips.

After the Paradise-recommended amount of small talk, Shy steps away from the women and goes back to looking at the dark sea that surrounds them. Thousands of miles of mysterious salt water. Home to who knows what. Big-cheeked bottom dwellers and slithering electric eels, whales the size of apartment buildings that swim around all pissed off they don't have real teeth.

And here's Shy, on the top deck of this sparkling white megaship. Two hundred thousand tons and the length of a sports arena, yet somehow still floating.

He remembers his grandma's reaction when she first learned he was applying for a summer job on a cruise ship—two weeks before she got sick. She ducked into her room, came out seconds later with one of her scrapbooks. Turned to several articles about the rise in shark attacks over the past decade.

Shy had to take her to the local library and pull up an image of a Paradise cruise liner on the Internet.

“Oh,
mijo,
” she breathed, all excited. “It's the biggest boat I've ever seen.”

“See, Grandma? There's no way a shark could mess with one of these things, right?”

“I don't see how.” She looked at the screen and then looked back at Shy. “I have pictures of their teeth, though,
mijo.
They have rows and rows. You don't think they could chew right through the bottom?”

“Not when the bottom's like eighteen feet thick and made of pure steel.”

Shy is staring blankly at the ocean like this, remembering his grandma, when out of the corner of his eye he sees a blur climbing the railing.

He spins around.

The comb-over man.

“Sir!” he shouts, but the guy doesn't even look up.

Shy cups his hands around his mouth and shouts it louder this time: “Sir!”

Nothing.

The two older women now see what's going on, too. Neither moves or says a word.

Shy rips off the cooler and sprints across the width of the deck. Gets there just as the man lowers himself over the other side of the railing and goes to jump.

Shy reaches out quick, snatches an arm. Grabs for the man's collar with his other hand and balls the material into his fist. Holds him there, suspended against the ship.

Everything happening so fast.

No time to think.

This man dangling over the edge, twenty-something stories up from the darkness and too heavy for one person, slipping through Shy's fingers.

He hooks his right leg through the railing for leverage so he won't get pulled over, too, and shouts over his shoulder: “Get help!”

One of the women hurries toward the lounge, through the glass doors. The other is shouting in Shy's ear: “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”

The comb-over man locks eyes with Shy. Shifty and bugged. Up to this point his hand has been gripping Shy's forearm. But now he lets go.

“What are you doing!” Shy shouts at him. “Grab on!”

The man only looks below him.

Shy tightens his grip. Grits his teeth and tries pulling the man up. But it's impossible. He's not strong enough. Their positioning is too awkward.

He looks over his shoulder again, yells: “Somebody help!”

The second woman shuffles backward, toward the lounge. Hand over her mouth. The water bottles from Shy's cooler rolling around the deck behind her.

Shy can feel the man's elbow starting to slip through his fingers. He has to do something. Now. But what?

Several seconds pass.

He lets go of the collar long enough to clamp on to the man's arm with his left hand, too. Just below the elbow. Both of his hands in a circle now. Fingers linked. Shy's whole body shaking as he holds on. Sweat running down his forehead, into his eyes.

His leg in the railing beginning to cramp.

A few more seconds and then he hears a ripping sound. The man's suit coming undone at the arm. He watches helplessly as the seams pull apart right in front of his eyes. Slow-motion-style. Black threads breaking, dangling there like tiny worms.

Then a loud tear of material and the man drops, screaming. Eyes wild as he falls backward. Arms and legs flailing.

He disappears into the darkness below with hardly a splash.

Shy!
someone calls out.

But Shy's still staring over the railing, into the darkness. Trying to catch his breath. Trying to think.

Shy, I know you can hear me.

Other passengers moving out onto the deck now. The hum of hushed conversations. A spotlight snapping on above him, its bright beam of light creeping along the surface of the water. Revealing nothing.

Stop
playing, bro. We need to hurry and get to Southside.

The ocean still whispering, same as before. Like nothing whatsoever has happened, and nothing will.

Shy glances down at his hands.

He's still gripping the man's empty sleeve.