The Odds of Getting Even (14 page)

“Hang a right,” Dale told Starr. “We'll come in the back way, on Fish Camp Road, so we don't have to walk so far.”

An uneasy silence crept over us. “Did the bank's ballistics report come back yet?” I asked to break the tension. Outside, a giant combine purred across a soybean field.

Starr slowed. “I meant to tell you. The bullets match the jailbreak gun.”

“That means Macon,” Capers murmured. “Sorry, Dale.”

“Fingerprints?” Dale asked.

Starr shook his head. “Whoever robbed the bank wore gloves.”

“Then you can't say it was Daddy,” Dale said. “It could have been anybody. There's the path,” he added, pointing toward a gap in the pines.

Dale hunched forward in his seat, studying the dirt path, and I caught a silver glimmer in his hair. I plucked it out. “Cobwebs,” I whispered. “From the old store.”

He sniffed them. “They smell bad.”

I smiled like he was normal.

Starr eased onto the rutted path, the briars scraping the sides of the car. “What's down there?” Harm asked, peering down a narrow wooded lane.

“An old fish camp,” Dale said. “There's an old marl pit back there too, where farmers dug up ancient shells to sweeten the soil. You can't get to it anymore.”

Starr spun his wheels in a soft spot. “We checked the fish camp the day Macon escaped. This path too. Did you kids touch anything at the crime scene?”

Just the entire car.

“Please,” I said before Dale could confess us. “We're borderline professionals.”

Dale pointed ahead. “It's past that boggy spot. We better walk.”

We piled out. Harm, Dale, and I darted past a clay-stained cement boat ramp angling from the path, into the river's swirl. We scrambled up the rise, rounded a bend, and slammed to a halt.

The branches that once hid the car lay scattered and crushed, their white bones and dull leaves littering the path. “It's gone,” I said, my heart dropping.

“Somebody stole our stolen patrol car.”

Starr slapped his hat against his leg and stared into the forest. “
This
is why I don't want you messing with my cases,” he snapped.

“Because we find things you can't?” I demanded.

“Because you could have gotten killed.
Obviously
Macon was watching you.”

Dale glared at him. “Even if it was him, he wouldn't hurt us.”

“Really?” Starr said. “Because that's not the way I remember him.”

In truth, that's not the way anybody remembers Mr. Macon. Starr clapped his hat back on and stared at the tire tracks leading from the hiding place, toward the highway. “Did you see anybody back here?”

“A buck,” Dale said. “A nice eight-pointer.”

I remembered the prickle of a stare against my neck. Somebody
was
watching us. When will I learn to listen to my detective instincts? “Dale's right,” I added. “Anybody walking through here could have took that car.”

“Really?” Starr said. “Did you look inside? Was the key in the ignition?”

Mentally I surveyed the car's dash. The ignition sat empty. How did I miss that?

“No?” Starr guessed. “Then it must have been in the pocket of whoever was watching you. Any idea why
someone
might move the car
now
?”

Harm went the color of raw pastry. “He may have heard me say we needed you.”

“That could have spooked him,” Dale said. “A little.”

“Do you think so?” Starr asked, his voice like a whip.

“Come on, Joe,” Capers said. “The kids found the car. They didn't drive it away. At least you know where it
was,
which is more than you knew before.”

Starr took a couple of deep breaths. The red seeped from his face.

My detective instinct quivered. This time I went with it: “I'd put a bulletin out if I was you.” Starr turned tomato red and stomped back to the Impala.

“At least things can't get worse,” I said.

“I wish you wouldn't say that,” Dale muttered. “You're always wrong.”

We drove toward the highway. My gift of gab had deserted me. Dale and Harm stared out opposite windows. Only Capers seemed at ease. “Stop,” she said.

Starr slammed on brakes. “What?”

She pointed down the curving offshoot path, to the
old fish camp. “Where's the best place to hide something? Somewhere already searched. Just like Macon hid that car on a path you'd searched. You searched the fish camp too. I say we try it. That car has to be somewhere, Joe. It didn't fly away.”

A shot at redemption. “The Desperados concur,” I said.

“Be quiet, Mo,” Starr growled.

We hiked to the old fish camp, our feet squishing in the mud. Its shack slumped by the river, half covered in vines. Two broke-through chairs sat on the porch, admiring a snaggletooth dock zigzagging into the river.

The air smelled heavy and sharp. “Coyotes,” Dale said. “Smells like they sleep here. They used to stay at the marl pit.”

Harm gulped. “I guess they wanted nicer digs.”

Starr shoved the shack door open and shined his light inside. “Nothing,” he said. “It was worth a shot,” he told Capers. “Let's get back to the Impala before somebody steals that too.” He hesitated. “I'd just as soon not read about this in the newspaper.”

“No problem,” she said. “I wouldn't have written about it anyway,” she whispered to me, and shoulder-bumped me.

Comforted by a stranger. My life has come to this.

Dear Upstream Mother,

Today I found the biggest clue of my life. Then I lost it. I hope you aren't ashamed.

I am. I think Dale and Harm are too.

Miss Lana says to live in the moment, but this one's a nightmare and tomorrow looks even worse.

I am available to spend the rest of my life with you.

Mo

Attila Goes Nice

The Colonel says there's two ways to meet Disaster: backing away or head-on.

“There's no backing out of sixth grade, so we might as well meet this head-on,” I told Dale and Harm the next morning as we huddled by the bicycle rack.

Hannah and Attila walked by, whispering and holding their books in a sophisticated high school way.

“Morning, ladies,” Harm said, giving them his best smile.

Hannah, who likes us, shot Dale a look and sped up.

Harm's smile crumpled. “It's hard to look good after you lose a patrol car.”

Dale yawned. “This is easy compared to having Macon for a daddy. Gossips are like snipers,” he said. “They run out of bullets after a while. Plus we got other things to think about. Queen Elizabeth is getting . . . rounder,” he said, very delicate. “We may need more kids on the Puppy List.”

We walked up the steps and opened the door.

The crowded hallway went dead quiet. Then whispers shot down the hallway like lightning down a raw wire. I would have marked it up to Standard Middle School Sniping, except for one blood-chilling thing: Attila went nice.

“Shhhh, there's Dale,” she hissed, grabbing Hannah's arm. Attila's gaze found Dale's, and quickly skated away. “It's probably nothing,” she said, too loud. Her posse nodded like robots plugged into the same brain.

“What's nothing?” I demanded.

“Nothing's nothing, Mo-ron,” she said as Jimmy and Jake jogged by.

“Mama told me,” Jimmy told Jake. “There's a body in the car. Oh,” he said, freezing. “Hey, Dale.”

“Don't be dumber than you have to be, Jimmy,” Attila said. “Nobody actually
said
there's a body in the car.”

“It's on Mama's police scanner. Possible body.”

Harm did a double take. “Your
mother
has a police scanner?”

“Mama says she'll need one when we're older and she might as well start learning it now,” Jimmy said. “A fisherman ran his boat up on a car, in the river. Near the boat ramp on Fish Camp Road. Starr called for a wrecker, and divers from Goldsboro. And EMTs.”

Divers? EMTs? Starr
does
think there's a body, I thought.

“We better get over there,” Dale said, the blood dropping from his face.

“You can't. It's time for homeroom,” Attila told him. She looked at him. “Good grief,” she muttered. “How can I get even with someone who won't even fight with me? Go, Dale,” she said, shoving him. “I'll cover for you. But don't ever mention it again.”

Attila knows how to cover?

“Thanks,” Harm said. “You're . . .” She put her hand on her hip and glared at him. “Thanks Anna,” he said again, and we ran for the door.

If there's a speed record for getting from the school to the boat ramp, we broke it.

We ditched the bikes beneath a bay tree and ran to the small knot of men pacing at the river's edge. “What's going on?” I gasped. “What's happened?”

“Not much,” Sam said, tugging his knit cap down over his ears. “The divers went in. They took the hooks from the tow truck. Ain't nothing to do but wait.” He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “I know your daddy, Dale,” he said. “Macon didn't go down with a car. But you kids maybe shouldn't be here.”

Dale shouldered past him, headed for the water's edge.

Lavender's truck skidded into the clearing and he scrambled out. “Where's Dale?”

I pointed to the water, and Lavender said a word I'd never heard him say before—one Miss Rose would never allow even in her barn. He ran to Dale and put his arm around Dale's shoulders. He bent low to talk in his ear, and herded him back up the hill.

“I want all three of you over here, out of the way,” Lavender said, like a mother hen herding baby chicks. “I'll call you when I know something.”

“But,” I said.

“No buts.” He put his hands on Dale's shoulders and bent to look into Dale's eyes. “Nobody knows whose car that is. It's just like Daddy to ditch a car, but it is
not
like him to be in it when he ditches it,” he said, his voice even.

Hearing Lavender call Mr. Macon “Daddy” scared me clear past my backbone. Lavender ain't called Mr. Macon “Daddy” since he moved out of that house two years ago.

A woman stepped from the group and crossed her arms.
Capers Dylan.

“How did Capers get here so fast? She ain't rescue,” I muttered.

“Somebody must have told her at the café,” Dale said, his eyes following Lavender. The wind swirled across the river, rattling sycamore branches like bones. We stepped closer to Dale. I could feel him shivering, and I knew it wasn't from cold.

Even from our distance, we could see.

They jacked the car onto the ramp inch by inch, the rusty cables creaking and straining, spooling tight as my nerves. The back of the car broke the muddy surface first, the bumper crisscrossed by branches, the back windshield covered in mud. The current grabbed the front of the car and jerked it at an angle.

The cable screamed and the driver gunned the tow truck's engine.

Capers looked at her watch, opened her notepad, and started scribbling. I grabbed my camera.
Click
.

The truck chugged into a deeper gear for a harder pull, and the car sloshed forward. “It's a black-and-white,” somebody called. “And somebody's . . .” The voice trailed away.

“Don't be in there,” Dale whispered, his eyes glued to the swirling water. Dale sat flat down and pulled his knees to his chin. He leaned forward and pressed his face against his knees. Harm and me folded down beside him. “Please,” Dale said.

I bit my lip and watched the car slide up the ramp, its front wheels torqued near sideways by the current. A large, dark form bobbed against the driver's window.

“Jeez,” Harm whispered.

“Don't look, Dale,” I said.

The men on the bank stood like scared boys, staring.
Lavender squared his shoulders and headed for the car. “Lavender,” Sam shouted. “Stop.”

Sam pushed past Lavender and splashed into the shin-deep water. He grabbed the driver's door, closed his eyes, and yanked it open. The river rushed him like a rapid. Lavender grabbed Sam's arm to keep him from toppling over, and then stooped to look in the car, his face a throw-up shade of gray.

“Please,” Dale whispered.

Lavender turned to look at Dale. For a half beat I thought Lavender would cry. Then his face stretched back to its regular shape. “Just his hunting jacket,” he shouted. “He ain't in here.”

Dale burst into tears.

“Not now,” I told Capers as she buzzed toward us. “Dale needs a minute.”

“Sure,” she said. “I just have a theory I want to run by you.”

Lavender bounded up. “Capers, Starr's looking for you. He wants you double quick.” As she walked away, he dropped to his knees. “Dale?” he said, putting his hand on Dale's shoulder. Dale sobbed, and he wrapped him in a hug. “It's just a jacket that got caught in the door.”

Dale looked up, his eyes wet. “I'm sorry,” he said, wiping his face on his sleeve.

Lavender gave him a gentle rock. “Don't be sorry.” He looked over at Capers, who stood at Starr's elbow. “Harm, throw the bikes in the truck. I can use a hand at the garage and you all could use a day off.”

Harm grabbed his bike.

“Mo, I'd appreciate it if you and Harm rode in the back to keep the bikes steady. Dale, you're up front with me,” he said.

Harm and me loaded up.

“Lavender,” I said, looking back at the people milling around the car. “What did Starr want to talk to Capers about?”

He grinned. “He didn't. I took a page from the Mo LoBeau Handbook of Diversions. Let's get out of here before she figures it out.”

Nobody knows me like Lavender.

We spent the rest of the morning sorting tools and straightening up Lavender's garage, the guineas chirping and chattering outside.

Dale didn't say a word as he worked beside Lavender, lining up wrenches and ratchets. I stacked cans of paint, primer, body putty. Harm sanded the car's body, his brown eyes smiling over the top of his mask.

By the time we taped plastic over the windshield and fenders, the blush had found Dale's cheeks again.

Just standing beside Lavender reminds Dale who he is.

Lavender slipped over to me as I tackled the boxes by Capers's wounded motorcycle. “Dale seems better,” he said, his voice low.

“True.” I picked up a box of clutter. “What's this? Candy wrappers, papers, a scratched beach music CD . . .”

“Trash from the mayor's Jeep,” he said. “I meant to throw it away.”

I snared a piece of pale blue paper. “Glad you didn't,” I said. “This is a perfect match for the toolbox note. Now we know how it got in your shop. I guess Mrs. Little didn't slide under the car and slit that tire after all,” I said, pocketing the paper.

He gave me his old grin. “Not this time anyway.” He looked around the garage. “That's as clean as I can stand,” he said. “Anybody hungry? Barbecue cures every ill known to mankind.”

“Sal says it makes a good lip gloss too,” Dale said, and we headed for the truck.

An hour later Harm and me found Grandmother Miss Lacy unloading groceries from the Buick as Dale and Lavender headed to the garage, to paint the 32 car. I grabbed a Piggly Wiggly bag.

“Thank you. Come in and get warm,” she said. “Then we'll prepare your alibis.”

“Alibis?” Harm said, hooking a gallon of milk. “Why do we need alibis?”

“You're truant,” she said, heading for the door. “The news is all over town.”

Truant? Doesn't that mean jail time?

“What in heaven's name?” she murmured, screeching to a halt. A familiar-looking pot of mums sat by her door. “Such nonsense,” she muttered, her eyes sparkling. “Read the card,” she invited, and I opened it.

Roses are red,

And I'm Red too,

I can't write a poem,

But these are for you.

She laughed. “Oh, for heaven's sake,” she said, whisking them into the house.

She put the mums on her kitchen table, filled her blue kettle, and lined up three cups. “Mo, I developed your film,” she said as her boiler clunked. “In fact, I've made your contact prints. I don't know if you have time today, but . . .”

“I've never seen a darkroom,” Harm said, his voice quick with excitement.

“That settles it,” I said, and swiped one of Grandmother Miss Lacy's old jokes. “We'll pop in and see what's
developed
.”

As it turned out, what developed came as a total shock.

While Grandmother Miss Lacy bustled about setting up the darkroom, Harm and I used magnifiers to examine the tiny images on my contact sheets, to pick the ones we'd develop into photos. “Queen Elizabeth takes a good glamour shot,” he said. He grinned and scooted his magnifier along the images. “Capers does too. Nice smile.”