The Exact Location of Home (20 page)

Almost nobody.

I drop my backpack on the ground. My note for Dad blows out of an unzipped pocket and I have to chase it down. I find a good-sized rock and weight it down right next to the ladder so he'll find it when he comes tomorrow morning.

But I still want to find the cache. I want to find it first.

I zip the GPS unit in my jacket pocket and reach for the bottom rung of the ladder.

Now I know why they make you do those pull-ups in gym class. Mr. Teeter said he'd be thankful to him for making me stay after school to practice, and he was right.

I pull myself up and start climbing. The metal ladder groans when I take the fifth step, and I stop. My hands are already scratched & rusty from holding the rungs. I test the sixth step with one foot. It feels plenty sturdy, so I step.

Step by slow step, I climb the tower.

Look. Step. Creak.

Look. Step. Creak.

Finally, my hand touches the railing on the catwalk that goes all around the middle of the tank. This must be where the cache is hidden. High H2O. It fits that clue perfectly.

I pull myself onto the catwalk and stand up to look for the cache, but the sun, low in the sky, catches me right in the face.

I squint into the warm rays, shining through the clouds. The rain and snow have all stopped now, and for the first time in weeks, I feel great. Like everything's finally going to be okay again.

I work my way around the edge of the catwalk, checking along the wall, even feeling underneath the railing in case somebody taped a film cannister or something down there. I make a full circle, and there's nothing. No wonder Dad had such a hard time finding this one.

The sun is lower in the sky now, turning the sky all kinds of of purple-red. I lower myself onto the ladder and start climbing down.

My hands and feet are on their way home, but my mind is already back here at the water tower Saturday morning. I'll have to wake up before it gets light. Dad didn't say what time and it might be early.

He'll be surprised to see me here, for sure. He's probably just back in town and getting ready to call. Maybe he's even been
trying
to call but lost Mom's cell number and doesn't know where we are.

The sun's down, and the wind's picking up, so I climb down faster. Hand, hand. Foot, foot. It's going to be so great to see him.

He'll laugh when he finds me here. That's what he'll do. He'll tip back his head and laugh like crazy, right after he gives me a big hug. And then we'll find the cache together and we'll go back online and put a note on the website that says—

Just as I bring my foot down on the ladder, the rung comes loose. It disappears out from under me, clangs on the one below it, and plummets to the ground. I clutch the
rung above me with both hands. The rusty metal scrapes my palms as I dangle. My feet flounder around for another rung.

My left foot catches the rung above the one that broke, and I pull myself back up, shaking so hard I can barely hold on.

I look down. It must be another forty feet to the ground. That kind of fall could kill you.

When I catch my breath, I try to stretch my foot down to the next rung on the ladder, under the one that broke. I can't reach.

I pull myself back up to the higher rung and look down between my body and the ladder. The light is fading, but I can make out the broken rung in the dry grass way below.

I stretch down again without letting go to see if I can tell how far I'd have to drop to reach that rung.

And I see lights.

Flashing red and blue lights.

I pull my leg back up.

A police car drives up to the base of the tower. An officer jumps out with a megaphone and slams his door shut.

“This is Officer Perry of the Lakeland Police. You need to stay where you are, okay?”

It's not like I have many options.

“We'll send someone up for you. I repeat, stay where you are and hold on. This water tower is not safe.”

As if to underscore his message, two big fire trucks—the long ones with the huge ladders—pull up, along with another police car and an ambulance.

The firemen hold a big tarp underneath the water tower ladder. I guess that's what I'm supposed to land on if I fall.

Even thinking about that drop makes my stomach wobble. My arms and legs are shaking from holding on. I cling to the ladder and press my cheek against the cold metal in the dark and wonder how Dad managed to get up here so easily. It figures. Everything's easy for him.

A fireman climbs up the long ladder and straps a harness on me so I can't fall as we climb down together.

When I get to the bottom, one more vehicle pulls in alongside the rescue vehicles. This one scares me more than the fire trucks and police cars combined.

It's Mom.

“We'll release him into your custody if you can promise us this won't happen again,” the cop says.

Mom nods, reaches for my elbow, pulls me closer to her. “We can definitely make that promise.”

That's my cue to nod. I feel like an idiot.

“You're a lucky young man.” The cop looks at me. He probably thinks I'm some spoiled, bored kid who only climbed up here to mess around.

Lucky.

Yeah.

“Kirby?” Mom nudges me.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Mom and I watch the firemen pack up their bouncy blue tarp and load the ladder back onto the truck. Scoop would think that was the coolest thing ever.

When the police cars and fire truck are gone, I start for the car, but Mom pulls me back toward the water tower. “Come sit down,” she says, and she plunks down on the dry grass near the base. Right next to the letter I wrote Dad.

She looks down at it. “I figured,” she says. She hands me the letter. “Senior Searcher isn't your dad, Kirb.”

I stare her down, as well as I can in the murky half-darkness. “How do you know?”

“I know.”

“You don't. You haven't seen these caches—they're so clever, Mom. They're
so
him. This has to be him. And then he stopped geocaching this summer until just now. Just now this week. I found an entry in his log online. He's coming back here Saturday to try and find the cache, and I'm coming. I know you don't want to see him or talk to him, but you can't keep me from seeing him. He's my dad. I won't try to climb up there again, but I'm coming here in the morning. I'm going to see him.” A tear falls from my face to the paper and smears the ink. I shake it at her. “This is my dad!”

She closes her eyes. “It's not.”

“Why do you keep saying that? You don't know!”

“I do know.” Her eyes open and look right at me. “Because your dad is in federal prison.”

I stare at her. Then I stare up at the sky.

An airplane trails across the sky behind the water tower and disappears into the distant trees.

Prison.

Mom sits watching me. Waiting.

But that one word sucks all of my other words out of my brain.

Finally, one comes back.

“
Why
?”

She moves closer to me and wraps her sweater around her more tightly. Like it will keep the story she's telling out of her heart. “The land deal, Kirb. Your dad was part of the Smugglers Island land deal with some other men.”

“And he's in
prison
?”

“At the city council meeting this week, they revoked the zoning permission for the condominiums to be built because it came out that the developers had planned to sabotage the heron colony on the island.”

“What? How?”

Mom takes a deep breath. “The nests, Kirby. Months ago, a phone tap caught them discussing a plan to put cooking oil on the eggs in the nests so none of them could hatch. They thought it would make the herons abandon the rookery and move on. To make way for the condos.”

“They were going to kill the baby birds in the eggs?”

Mom nods. “They would have suffocated.”

“And Dad was part of that?” I feel sick. The pit I felt in my stomach when the ladder rung gave out was nothing compared to this.

Mom shakes her head. “Dad's friends. They've done this before, Kirb.” She reaches into her book bag, pulls out the front page of Sunday's newspaper, and unfolds it. “Here,” she says with a rush of breath. I put down my letter to Dad and move the rock back on top. Not that it matters.

I take the newspaper.

His picture is on the front page. I don't know how I didn't see it before, when I glanced at the paper at the shelter before Mom grabbed it. Actually, yeah, I know how. His hair is shorter and slicker. And his moustache is gone. But it's Dad.

The article at the top of the page is about the city council meeting. This one, right below it, has a different headline:

LAKELAND DEVELOPER SENTENCED IN FLORIDA

I look up at Mom. “Florida?”

She nods. “Remember Ruby's story that you told me? About the guy who ordered the bald eagle nest destroyed because he thought it'd clear the way for a golf course expansion.”

I look down and read.

Kirby Zigonski, Senior, a prominent Lakeland real estate developer who manages properties throughout the Northeast, has plead guilty to violating the Federal Protected Species Act. Zigonski admitted he hired a landscaper named Robert Jimenez to cut down the tree in which Zigonski knew a female bald eagle was nesting. Zigonski's golf course expansion project had been put on hold by the Lee County Environmental Protection Council because of the presence of the eagle
.

Jimenez was arrested when a neighbor called police to report him cutting down the tree early on the morning of June 20. Jimenez, who speaks little English, told a translator that Zigonski had approached him about doing the work and that he himself had no information about the eagle nest in the tree. Jimenez was released on his own recognizance, and police charged Zigonski with violation of the federal protected species act. He was held without bail until last week's court hearing, at which he pleaded guilty and was sentenced to one to five years in federal prison
.

The bald eagle, which biologists believe to be a six-year-old female, has not returned to the area. Her nest and the two eggs in it were destroyed when the tree fell
.

My dad. Great, funny guy. The guy who shows up with presents and limousines and tells jokes. And kills birds so he can make money.

When I finally look up from the paper, Mom's leaning back, staring up at the water tower.

“He used to be so different, Kirby. So different.”

I know. “He used to be fun, didn't he? Before he started only caring about real estate and stuff.”

Mom nods. “We used to come here for picnics.” A Burger King cheeseburger wrapper rustles past us. “It was beautiful. Wildflowers all over. We'd spread out a blanket at night like this, warmer nights usually, and eat our sandwiches and watch the stars get brighter and brighter.”

“Was I there?”

“Yeah, you were. You were a baby.”

I look up at the stars, trying to poke through the clouds. I want so badly to remember, but I can't.

“Dad always said he'd give you the moon and the stars if he could. And I told him no, because we already had everything we needed.”

“That wasn't enough for him, huh?” I pluck a blade of grass and try to blow on it to make it whistle, but it's too dry and scratchy.

“No, it wasn't enough,” Mom says. “I'm not sure anything ever will be.”

Gently, she pulls the newspaper from my hand and slides it into her backpack. “I'm sorry. He wanted to tell you about all this himself, and I was going to respect that. He loves you, he really does. He felt like he should explain all this.”

“Well, he didn't.”

“No. He didn't.” She leans back. “He's not strong. Not like you. I don't think he could bring himself to write to you or call you. He won't answer my letters now either.”

The wind gusts, and the letter I wrote him flutters and flaps under the rock. I smooth it out. “I really thought this was him.”

“You really wanted it to be.”

I nod.

“Come on,” Mom says. “We should get back.” We stand and start walking to the car.

But everything feels so unfinished. I stop. So does she.

“How could you just let me . . ” I look up at the water tower, at the ladder I was clinging to half an hour ago. At the hope I was clinging to. And I feel so stupid. “You should have told me.”

“I should have,” Mom says. “I was hoping. Hoping he'd do the right thing and tell you the truth on his own. Hoping he'd write to you. Hoping things would work out with the apartment. Hoping we'd find a new place. I was doing lots of lots of hoping and not enough of everything else.” She turns to me. “When I get my degree next month, I'll start nursing and we'll be able to move into an apartment. I promise.”

She starts walking again, and I follow. Her backpack makes her shoulders droop. It's probably loaded with books for her nursing classes, like always.

“Everything that's done in the world is done by hope,” I say.

Mom pulls keys from her pocket to unlock the truck door. “What's that from?”

“Something I read once,” I say. I get in and peer up at the water tower through the windshield.

I was so sure. So sure it was him.

School passes in kind of a blur the rest of the week. Stupid things like not having a pencil matter less after you almost get killed hanging off a water tower.

On Saturday morning, I wake up to a loud clunk on the floor. Dad's journal—no, somebody else's journal—has slipped out from under my pillow and fallen off the bunk.

I climb down to pick it up and check my watch. 9:30. I slept in. Heather and Scoop are gone, and Mom's covering the breakfast shift at the diner until at least ten.

I pick up the journal and open it to page in the middle.