OCDaniel (12 page)

I waited with her, resting my hand on her back. After a while she stopped shaking, and then she wiped her eyes and sat up, looking drained. She glanced at me, sheepish.

“I didn't say I'd be the best partner.”

“For me, you might be.”

She smiled and squeezed my hand. “I should go home. Can you print the background check tomorrow when you get it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I walked her downstairs, and she opened the door and looked back at me.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I smiled. “Of course.”

She hurried out and shut the door behind her. I don't know why, but watching someone else break made me feel a lot less broken.

Daniel crept down the stairs, his hands shaking as he held the baseball bat he'd found in the corner of the attic. The steps protested quietly beneath him, grumbling and warning of his approach. He reached the front hall and paused, unsure what to do now.

There was another knock—louder this time. It echoed through the house.

Propping the bat on his shoulder, ready to swing, Daniel tentatively reached out and pulled the door open. He almost spilled backward in surprise. Sara was standing there.

She went to his school, but he didn't know her well. She had a reputation for eccentricity that certainly matched her now—she was wearing a crimson headband and had a croquet mallet in her right hand, along with a kitchen knife tucked into her belt. She shook her head.

“I knew it would be this station,” she said. “As soon as it happened. Step inside.”

Daniel backed up quickly, and she hurried in and shut the door behind her, glancing outside. She was wearing a graphic T-shirt and ripped blue jeans, along with stained white sneakers.

“Have you seen them yet?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “What are they?”

“I call them Portal Men,” she replied, locking the door and inspecting him like he was an item at the grocery store. “They came through when you adjusted the energy frequencies.”

“Slow down,” Daniel said. “What?”

“Where is the station?”

“The—”

“Station,” she repeated. “Where?”

“Upstairs.”

“Show me.”

Daniel led her up to the attic, and she checked every room as they went, her hand on the croquet mallet. She moved like a stalking cat. She made him nervous. When they reached the attic, he gestured at the computer.

“Here.”

She hurried over to the computer and sat down. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and Daniel watched, amazed, as code scrolled across the screen. Finally she sat back, frowning.

“It's locked,” she said. “It's as I feared. We're going to have to go see Charles.”

“Charles Oliver?” Daniel guessed.

She glanced at him. “You're not as clueless as I thought. But we have twenty-four hours to get to New York and reset the frequency, so you're still an idiot. Does your dad have a gun?”

“I don't think so,” he said nervously. “Do I need one?”

She stood up. “It wouldn't hurt. Portal Men aren't friendly. Trust me.”

He looked at her, hesitating. “No offense, but you have a croquet mallet.”

Sara laughed.

“This isn't a croquet mallet. Now pack a bag. We're leaving.”

I leaned back, already feeling a little calmer. It was nice to get a break from the Zaps before the nightmare of the Routine started. I put the laptop away and decided to go to bed. I'd had enough Sara Malvern for one night. She gave a lot of orders.

  •  •  •  

We were sitting in class the next day, and Mr. Keats was busy writing notes on the board. I was trying to pay attention, but Max was busy using the distraction to walk me through about a hundred different football plays for that Saturday. The kids in class were all whispering and muttering about the game. Apparently some of the Portsmith Potters had been posting insulting messages on Facebook, and war had been declared by our team. They called us the Erie Hills Ele-fats, which wasn't exactly accurate. I think I weighed, like, 120 pounds after a big meal.

But nonetheless, it was expected that I be outraged, so I pretended to be as insulted as Max was.

“This is the fake hook-out,” he said. “If you get the sign, he's going to hut straight to you. Then you'll drop back and hit me with a pass.”

I looked at him, alarmed. “You know I don't throw.”

“It's, like, a five-yard pass. We've been over this.”

I shook my head and turned to the front of the class. My stomach hadn't stopped turning over on itself all day. I wasn't sure if I preferred the encouraging pats and cheers or the glum looks from the smarter players on the team. Either way, I had barely been able to eat my lunch, and I loved bologna.

Mr. Keats turned around. “For today's social studies question, we will be working in groups.”

Everyone sat up a little straighter. They were waiting for the next line. He sighed.

“You can pick your own. Fours, please.”

I don't know why I did it. Maybe I was distracted. But I looked right at Raya with this hopeful, deluded expression. She noticed me and nodded. What did that mean? What had I done? Were we partners?

“Looks like we're working with Raya,” Max commented knowingly. “Come on.”

Before we got there, Clara was sitting next to her, notepad open and smiling right at Max.

“Hey,” she said. “Foursies?”

Max glanced at me, and I knew he was barely holding back a groan. We sat down, him across from Clara and me across from Raya, and waited as everyone else settled in. Raya smiled at me.

“You want to ride on my coattails again, I presume?” she asked.

“Naturally.”

She grinned. “Who could blame you? Are you actually going to do some work, Max?”

“That depends,” Max said. “Do you want an A?”

Raya laughed, and Clara laughed even louder, flicking her hair.

“You're bad,” she said, and Max just turned a little pink and gave me an exasperated look.

“All right,” Mr. Keats said, cutting over the noise. “The questions are on page forty-one. Try to keep the discussions to the work please.” He sat down and opened his newspaper.

The four of us turned to each other. Raya opened her textbook.

“Why does the election process—”

“Is that a new shirt?” Clara asked Max, twirling her hair around her finger.

He looked down. “Yeah. Why?”

She shrugged. “I just like it. Are you ready for the game Saturday?”

Max launched into a discussion about the game, and Raya just sighed.

“Daniel? Shall we?”

I grinned and pulled up next to her to get to work.

  •  •  •  

“It looks empty,” Sara said.

We were watching John's house from a hedge on the other side of the road. I looked at her, frowning. There wasn't a truck in the driveway, but beyond that it looked the way it had the last time: unkempt and eerie. The black curtains were drawn shut like the ones in the back of a hearse.

I had found the email sitting in my inbox when I'd gotten home.
Your background check results are in!
I had been nervous to open it, and I hadn't felt any better once I had. John Flannerty had only one charge on his record, but it was for assault. When I told Sara, she just nodded, as if it confirmed her suspicions.

“You're sure he's at work?” I asked, peering at the house nervously.

“He only has the one truck. Plus he's at work. I did my research. Are you ready?”

“Not really.”

“Tough.” She suddenly scampered across the street, carrying a backpack she said she'd brought to collect evidence.

I sighed and took off after her.

We reached the front door. Sara looked both ways and then rang the doorbell. We waited, listening to the wind rustling the oak tree out front of his house. Nothing happened.

“Perfect,” she said, slipping the key out of her pocket. “Let's go.”

She eased the door open, and I followed, feeling my heart pounding. I felt terrible, like I'd just flicked my light switch nine times. We stepped inside into the darkened front hallway. It smelled like cigarettes and cologne. An old side table sat beside the door with a long-dead plant in the middle.

“Lovely,” I whispered.

“I know.”

I closed the door behind me, my eyes on the hall. I felt like he was going to burst out at any moment, but the house was silent.

“Follow me,” she said. “We need to get to his bedroom.”

Our footsteps creaked loudly on the green carpeted floorboards. In the hall there were pictures of John on a motorcycle and in his pickup truck, surrounded by other large, tattooed men with beards and sunglasses. In one John had his shirt off—there was a huge skull on his chest.

“Where did your mom meet this guy?”'

She shrugged. “She didn't tell me, since it was before my dad disappeared. Here.”

She paused in front of a partially closed door and eased it open. It was pitch-black in the room. The smell of cigarettes was stronger here, and I could almost taste the acrid burning on my tongue. She flicked on a light, bathing the room in an orange tint from a dusty old ceiling light. The room was a mess.

There were clothes on the floor, and his bed was unmade, the blanket half on the floor. My mom would have fainted if she saw this place. There were even plates and glasses on his nightstands.

“Check the dressers,” she said.

“Do I have to touch anything?” I asked sarcastically.

She just snorted and hurried to the closet. I went to the dresser and opened the first drawer. Socks and underwear. He wore tighty whiteys, which didn't really match my expectations. He seemed like a boxers kind of guy.
Focus.
I kept looking through the drawers, but found nothing except clothes and one drawer with scattered things like old parking tickets and bank statements, but there didn't seem to be much there. I did check his bank statements to see if maybe John was out of money and this was some money-related ploy with Sara's mom, but he seemed to be all right financially.

“Anything?” I asked Sara, who was digging through the closet, almost crazed.

“No,” she said. “Just a bunch of junk and ratty T-shirts.”

“What are we looking for? Like a signed letter of him admitting to the murder? I mean, most people don't just keep evidence of murders around.”

“A letter would be nice,” she replied. “But any clues would do.”

I sighed and kept looking. I opened the bottom drawer and saw a bunch of dress shirts that looked like they had never been worn. I was closing it again when I noticed that the shirt on the right side was a little crumpled, like it had been shoved hastily into the drawer. On a whim I pulled it out. My eyes widened.

“Sara,” I said quietly.

She hurried over. “Bingo.” She slipped on some winter gloves and then knelt down to pick up a handgun that was tucked into the drawer. She turned it over. She scanned the dresser, and then slowly lowered the gun.

“What is it?” I asked.

She put the gun on the dresser and picked up a watch sitting beside the TV. It was an old thing—tarnished gold and with a hand that didn't even work anymore. I wouldn't have given it another look, but Sara was holding it like it was the most valuable thing in the world. She looked at me, her eyes watering.

“It was your dad's,” I guessed.

She nodded, and tears started to stream down her cheeks. “He said he was going to give it to me one day.” Her hands were shaking. “I knew he wouldn't take it. He was going to leave it for me. It belonged to my grandfather. And now . . . now it's here.”

I didn't know what to do. I just put my hand on her shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“He killed him.”

I paused. “We can't prove that with this. Lots of people have guns. And your mom could have given him the watch.”

“Do you believe that?”

I hesitated. “No.”

She tucked it into her pocket. “I'm taking the watch.”

I could tell from her voice that she wasn't going to argue, even though I thought it was a bad idea.

“Fine,” I said. “I'll put the gun back—”

I was cut off by the sound of the front door opening, and heavy footsteps on the floorboards.

Sara and I looked at each other in panic. I shoved the gun back into the drawer and closed it, and Sara scanned the room nervously.

“The bed,” she whispered, and then darted underneath the frame.

I dove in after her, pulling myself along the dusty carpet and cringing at the piles of clothing scattered underneath. There were some socks that looked like they might have been there for several years at least. It smelled like stale sweat and mildew. I tried not to vomit.

I was quickly distracted by approaching footsteps. I froze, and Sara and I looked at each other, eyes wide.

Then black boots entered the room. They were bigger than my head. Suddenly I heard a gruff voice talking. It wasn't John's.

“Hey,” the man said. “Where is the money again?”

Silence.

“Where in the closet? All right. Hold on.”

Beside me Sara fidgeted and pulled her cell phone out. She started recording and smiled at me. We heard rummaging in the closet and then a muttered curse.

“Not there. . . . Well, I think I'd be able to see five grand.”

My whole body was shaking.
What is going on? How did I get myself involved in this? What if he finds us?
I felt my stomach turning. Sara grabbed my hand.

“It's okay,” she mouthed.

She held my eyes as much as my hand, and I felt the panic passing. When she stared at me, I felt it. As before, it was like she was looking into me. I had never seen anyone with eyes like that. I was again distracted by the sounds of the nightstand drawers being pulled open. The boots were a few inches away.