Catacomb (2 page)

He’d had another vision. He’d seen Micah’s ghost, waving good-bye.

He hadn’t had any visions since then, and for that, Dan was grateful. It felt like a signal: it was time to let it all go and move on. Even the files and journals he had saved from the ordeal held no interest anymore.

Well, except for one small thing.

Before the trip, Abby and Jordan had threatened to subject Dan to a search of his things for any junk he might have brought from Brookline. They’d said it like a joke—like, no way Dan would really do that to them, right?

But in the end, they hadn’t dumped out his bag, which meant they hadn’t found the file he had brought along. The one that had been folded in half at the bottom of the stack they’d rescued from Professor Reyes’s things. The one labeled
POSSIBLE FAMILY / CONNECTIONS?
, inside which he’d found a paper-clipped pile of papers, connected by a name that had made his heart shoot into his mouth.

MARCUS DANIEL CRAWFORD
.

Nine months ago, that pile of papers had seemed like a gift, the reward at the end of a long, hard search for answers about his mysterious past. A sparse family tree had confirmed what he’d already suspected: Marcus was his father, and he was also the nephew of the warden through the warden’s youngest brother, Bill. But a single line had also been drawn from Marcus to someone named Evelyn. Was that his mother? It seemed
so incomplete. He’d tried to find any Evelyn Crawford online who seemed like a match, but with no promising results and no maiden name, he hadn’t had much else to go on.

There was more in the stack—an old postcard, a map, even a police report detailing a time his father had been arrested for breaking and entering—but maddeningly, nothing that would help him pick out his father from the numerous Marcus Daniel Crawfords he found online, and nothing else about his potential mother.

Still. Even after the pile of papers had come to feel less like a gift than a curse, he’d kept the folder hidden. And when he’d packed his bags for this trip, the thought of Paul and Sandy going through his room and finding the folder had been enough to make him bring it—to keep it in sight.

As if on cue, Dan’s phone buzzed, not with Beyoncé but with the more subdued jingle indicating Sandy was texting. He checked the message, smiling down into the faint glow of the screen.

How are the intrepid roadtrippers doing? Please tell me you are eating more than beef jerky and Skittles! Call at the next good stopping place.

Dan texted back to reassure her that they were doing their best to eat actual, normal food.

“How’s Sandy?” Jordan asked, craning around to look at him again.

“She’s good. Just making sure we aren’t stuffing ourselves with junk the whole way to Louisiana,” Dan replied. He flicked his eyes up to see Jordan swallowing with some difficulty—the insides of his lips were a guilty shade of Skittles orange.

“It’s a road trip. What does she think we’re going to do?” Jordan asked. “Boil quinoa on the radiator?”

“That’s not a half-bad idea,” Abby teased. “We are
not
stopping at McDonald’s tonight.”

“But—”

“No. I checked to see if there was anything to eat other than fast food on the route. Turns out we can avoid the Montgomery traffic and stop at a cute little family-owned diner off 271.”

“Diners have hamburgers,” Jordan pointed out sagely. “So really, that doesn’t change much.”

“Hey, I’m just providing a few more options. What you stuff down your gullet is none of my business,” she said.

“And thank God for that,” Jordan muttered. “Quinoa is for goats.”

“I’m with Abby,” Dan said. “I could use a salad, or just, you know, a vegetable of any kind. I’m starting to shrivel up from all the beef jerky.”

He heard the satisfied smile in Abby’s voice as she sat up straighter in the driver’s seat and said, “That’s settled then. The place I found is called the Mutton Chop, and the same family has owned it for generations. We can get a little local history for my photography project
and
a decent meal.”

“I’m still getting a burger,” Jordan muttered. He twisted to face the windshield, sighing as he slid down into his seat and began to text at lightning speed. “Soon I’ll be on the all-gumbo, all-jambalaya diet. Gotta get my burgers in while I still can.”

W
hen the tire popping jolted Dan out of a nap, his first thought was to be grateful he wasn’t the one driving.

“What was that!” Jordan had shot up like rocket, too, gripping the edge of the door while the car began to swerve and then slow.

“I think we lost a tire,” Abby said with a sigh. She didn’t seem frightened in the least, holding the wheel steady while the car corrected and then leveled out. She navigated them carefully off the road, letting the Neon idle in the ditch for a second before turning off the ignition. “And that’s why you always pack a spare.”

“What the hell are we going to do?” Jordan asked, leaning against the window to try to see which tire had blown.

“Paul taught me how to fix tires when I first learned to drive, but I doubt I could manage it,” Dan said. They had cell signal, at least, so Triple-A was a possibility.

“Well, lucky for you boys,
I
practiced right before the trip.” Patting the wheel with a smug little hop, Abby opened the door and circled to the trunk.

“There’ll be no living with her after this,” Jordan warned.

“Just be glad she can do it,” Dan said. “It’s getting dark.”

“That’s, um, not what I meant.”

“Jordan? Jordan! Where is the spare? I know I checked it before I left New York. . . .” Her shout was muted through the windows, but still sharp and getting sharper.

“
That’s
what I meant.” Jordan sucked in a huge breath, steeling himself, and then eased out of the car. “So, um, before I explain anything, just promise you won’t murder me.”

“No deal,” Abby said. Dan joined them in the cooling night air, watching them square off with matching crossed-arm poses. “Where’s the spare, Jordan?”

“Funny story. Remember how my dad was rushing us out the door and I was like, oh, I totally do not need to bring my tauntaun sleeping bag? And then, in the end, I realized that yes, I absolutely, one hundred percent did need to bring it? I’m moving, Abby. Like, for good. I couldn’t just leave my tauntaun sleeping bag behind.”

Dan snorted behind his wrist, watching Abby’s face pale with fury.

“You took out the spare tire to make room for your stupid
Star Trek
memorabilia?”

“Hey, whoa, whoa. I would
not
do that. Star
Wars
memorabilia, on the other hand . . .”

“Whatever it is!” Abby pinched the bridge of her nose, going to inspect the popped tire. She crouched, muttering to herself. “Great. We’ll have to walk into town for a spare, then.”

“Is it far?” Dan asked, getting out his phone to check the GPS. “Couldn’t we just call a tow company?”

“That’s way too expensive,” Abby replied. “I’m already going to have to buy a new tire, and it’s just a half mile more down the road. We almost made it. It wouldn’t have been a big deal at all
if smarty-pants over here hadn’t packed like a twelve-year-old.”

“There’s nothing to fight about now,” Dan said, putting a hand lightly on Abby’s shoulder. “And I can kind of see his side. He
is
moving. If he wants New Orleans to feel like home, then he has to bring the stuff he cares about.”

“Thank you, Dan. At least two of us understand the value of a tauntaun sleeping bag.”

“Stop saying it
.
”

“What?” Jordan smirked. “Tauntaun sleeping bag?”

“Shut. Up. Every time you say that it just makes me want to punch you more,” she said, shaking her head. But she was smiling. “That thing better be really warm at least. Maybe I’ll borrow it tonight as payback.”

Nobody had bothered to replace the burned-out neon lights that had once advertised the Mutton Chop. What few bulbs were left told Dan they were eating at the
O CH P
. The tiny gravel parking lot was packed with cars—mostly rusting trucks. Smoke poured out from some smokestack in the back, filling the air with the salty tang of a greasy-spoon grill.

A mechanic’s shop was attached to the building. Not exactly appetizing for the diner, Dan thought, but pretty darn fortunate for them. Food could wait. Abby led them to the door of the garage, but it was dark inside. A scrap of paper on the window read Mechanic Next Door.

The sounds of clinking glasses, country jukebox music, and laughter reached them from the open diner window. A crooked
placard next to the screen door seemed to Dan like a warning: “The Mutton Chop! Where everyone knows your face!”

“Where everyone knows your face? Isn’t it
name
?” Jordan asked with a snort. “They couldn’t even plagiarize properly.”

“Don’t be a snob, Jordan.” Abby opened the screen door, holding it for the boys while they filed through.

“What are you, Saint Abby, protector of the hillbillies?” The noise coming from inside the diner managed to die out in the exact second Jordan finished his sentence. Two dozen heads turned in unison to stare at them. Dan didn’t spy many smiles among the crowd. “Of which there are none in this oh-so-charming establishment,” Jordan finished, clearing his throat.

“Please stop talking,” Abby whispered, turning to address the man who’d walked over and now stood waiting to greet them. Mercifully, the rest of the diners went back to their business.

“Hi there, sir. We were wondering if you could get us the mechanic? Is he here? We blew a tire and need to buy a spare.”

The man looked nice enough. He appeared to be in his early twenties, pudgy, and had a short, unkempt beard. He had a name tag that read
JAKE LEE
and grease stains on his coveralls.

“You’re in luck, little lady. I’m the mechanic, and a damn good one at that, even if I am just a hillbilly,” he said pointedly, shifting his gaze to Jordan. “So, you need a spare tire, eh? What kinda car y’all driving?”

Abby fell into conversation with him, following as he led them back toward the darkened mechanic’s shop. She told him she drove a 2007 Neon, and she assured him she had the tools to do the job, just not the tire itself.

He went around to the back of the garage, and in no time at
all he returned with a tire, placing it on the ground in front of them with a heavy
whump
.

“It’s getting late, and I’d feel bad letting y’all go back out there alone. You sure you know what you’re doing?” He took off his baseball cap and ruffled his sparse hair. He looked directly at Abby, watching her struggle to roll the new tire onto its side.

“Could you give us a ride back to the car? I’d really appreciate it. We were planning to stop in the diner for dinner, but it’d be better if we could bring our car back here before it gets too dark.”

Jake Lee nodded, then turned and marched off in the direction of his enormous pick-up. “Might be a tight squeeze. Truck’s meant for haulin’ stuff, not people.”

“That’s fine,” Abby said. “Thanks for helping us out.” Dan had no idea how she could keep up such a bright demeanor while she tried to maneuver the tire into the flatbed of the truck. Dan dashed over to help, and then Jordan joined, too.

“No trouble at all,” Jake said.

Dan hoped this was just friendly Southern hospitality at work. He couldn’t help feeling a creepy vibe from this guy and his willingness to help them. But it was already getting dark, and if they had to walk back to the car with that heavy tire it would take them way too long.

They piled into the front cab of the truck, Jordan whimpering from the sudden onslaught of about sixteen car fresheners stuffed behind the rearview mirror. “Maybe I’d rather walk,” he whispered. “What smell do you think he’s trying to cover up?”

“I’d rather not think about it,” Dan whispered back.

Jake Lee drove them back up the road, humming softly as they
went. When that started to get weird, he turned on the radio, and bluegrass blasted out of the tinny speakers, so loud and frantic it immediately gave Dan a headache.