Zeke Bartholomew (4 page)

The first time I tried to swim on my own I was five years old. The town swimming pool was free to anyone who registered with city hall, and as soon as my arms fit into floaties my mom dragged me over and carried me into the water. My mom would always wear a one-piece with some sort of floral design. My dad wore swim trunks and a T-shirt. He never took off his shirt. He's kind of pale guy, so I think he might have been worried that if he took off his shirt on a sunny day he might spontaneously burst into flame.

So one day, when my parents weren't looking, I ran and dove into the pool to show them that I didn't need those stupid floaties. I was a big boy and didn't need their eyes on me at all times.

I did my best cannonball and splashed down in the deep end hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. Fifteen seconds passed. Thirty. Forty-five. I was doing it. I was swimming alone. Then suddenly I realized that in all of my excitement, I'd forgotten to breathe.

And that's when I felt a pair of hands grab me around my waist and hoist me out of the water, sputtering like a perforated garden hose. It was my dad. He was holding me and crying. And he still had his shirt on.

“What in the heck did you think you were doing?” he shouted, the fear in his eyes far greater than any anger.

I shrugged and said, “Proving to you and Mom I could do it. Swim alone.”

He hugged me tight and said, “I'll never doubt that you can do anything, Zeke.”

My dad hoisted me out of the pool and plopped me on the ground. And that's when I realized that, in my hasty dive, somehow my pants has come off. I stood there butt naked for about ten seconds before my father realized what had happened. My bathing suit was floating on the surface like an unmanned vessel. He plucked it out, picked me up, and carried me into the bathroom. So much for feeling like an adult.

That years-old memory ran through my head when I realized, once again, that I'd forgotten to breathe.

I lurched out of the water, my eyes, nose, and brain burning. Where was I? What had happened? Then I remembered the suited man pointing the gun at me. I remembered backing up, holding my hands out, and then…darkness.

Wiping the water from my eyes, I looked around. Everything was dark. I couldn't make out much of anything. Thankfully I'd become a much better swimmer since that day at the pool, so I was able to tread water while figuring out just what to do.

The current was fairly strong. My sweatpants were waterlogged and heavy, and they were dragging me down. I couldn't see a riverbank, so I began to paddle in a random direction hoping to strike land.

Bad idea, Zeke.

About a dozen strokes in, a massive light appeared above me, shining directly into the path I was swimming toward. The light flooded my eyes, blinding me. It was coming from the bridge I'd just fallen off. The goons were looking for me.

Yesterday I had been in math class. Ms. Connelly was glaring at me because I wasn't paying attention and didn't hear her ask me a question. I thought I was in big trouble then. I didn't know what big trouble was.

When my vision adjusted to the darkness, I could see that the goons were climbing down the riverbank to try to spot me from there. I could hold my breath for a minute—two, tops—but these guys were pros.

Advantage goons.

The light drew closer. The goons would spot me in a matter of seconds. Then I heard a voice, and my heart froze in my chest.

“Lance has to be here somewhere.” It was the goon who had sat next to me in the car. “Kid fell straight down. I heard a splash. He's in the water.”

“Ugh, I have spaghetti strands in my hair,” another goon said.

“He's smarter than we thought,” the first voice said. “Obviously Derek Lance has the ability to innately control his gag reflex. Mr. Le Carré should have warned us about who we were going up against.”

“He's still a kid, and there are three of us. All we gotta do is find him.”

“I owe Lance a broken leg. Maybe two. Ugh, I think there's meatball in my nostril.”

I'd thrown up dozens of times in my life, and never once had it been considered “resourceful.” But that awkward sense of pride died down when I remembered that these goons still thought I was Derek Lance, and just a moment ago they'd threatened to kill me. I decided it wasn't the best course of action to wait around for them to find me.

The problem was I didn't know where to go. If I made any noise they might hear me, and I didn't know how far the other riverbank was.

Through the dim light I could see steel supports rising from the water like rusty gray sentries. A bed of reeds and lily pads swayed underneath the bridge. And that's when I got the idea that I thought might just save my life.

I dug into my pocket and found the pen I'd used to sift through Derek Lance's trash. At first I wondered if I could throw it at one of the lackeys, maybe do some sort of boomerang thing where it knocked all three of them out cold. Then I remembered that I have the arm strength of a wet noodle. Maybe I could write a note on a leaf, stick it inside a bottle. Yeah, right.

I uncapped the pen. I must not have been paying attention, because I felt the cartridge crack. That's when the idea came to me. Maybe I wasn't as stupid as I thought I was…

I worked the barrel of the pen back and forth until the cartridge split in two. I let the closed-off end float away and brought the other end to my lips. I blew as hard as I could. A nasty, inky taste flooded my mouth. Blech. This had better work…

I dove below the surface and quietly swam over to the reed bed, wary of creating too much attention and drawing the goons to my position. Once I was nestled in with the reeds, I pinched the ink tube, pulled it out, and let it drift away. Then I brought the newly created breathing tube to my mouth, ducked underwater, and hovered just below the surface with the tip of my new breathing straw poking just above the waterline.

Then I waited.

I couldn't draw much air through the tube, and I had to tread water just below the surface to keep the tube out of the water. I wouldn't be able to do this for very long. My arm muscles were growing stiff from treading water, but my life depended on it.

Just then, I saw a wave of light sweep across the water directly above where I was hiding. Then another. Then another. My eyes widened, water stinging them. Each of the three goons was scanning the river with a flashlight. I was scared to breathe, scared to move. What if the breathing tube dipped underwater for a moment and I accidentally blew bubbles? Not only would I get caught, but I'd die with inky blue lips. Real heroic.

Hold it together, Zeke…

I heard noises above the surface, but couldn't make them out. The men were clearly shouting. Frustrated at something. The flashlights had come to rest directly above my hiding spot. I breathed in and out as slowly as I possibly could. The pen tube was incredibly slim and still tasted kind of nasty. I only had a few more seconds before my arms would cramp up.

Then the lights were gone. The shouting was growing distant. I peeked my eyes above the surface. The goons were walking back up the riverbank toward the car. They were leaving.

“Mr. Le Carré is going to be pretty peeved,” one of the goons said.

“
You
were in the backseat with him. He's a freakin' kid, and you couldn't restrain him?”

“Lay off; there's a reason Mr. Le Carré sent three of us. This isn't an ordinary kid.”

“We know that now,” the driver said. “We only have one choice.”

“No…him? You're going to call
him?
”

The goon said the word
him
like “him” was the last person you'd ever want to meet in a dark alley.

“We can't. He can kill Lance with his pinky finger.”

They were too far away. I couldn't make out what the driver was saying. All I heard was something that sounded like, “
Call
hag
rock.
”

I didn't know what a “hag rock” was, and even though it sounded silly, if it was bad enough to have these goons quaking in their penny loafers, it was bad enough to make me want to get the heck away from it.

I waited until the car had driven away, then slowly swam to the riverbank, launched myself onto the muddy grass, and breathed in deep, thankful gulps of air. I sat there in the mud and gloom for what must have been an hour. I wanted to make sure the goons were gone—and that they weren't coming back. Every so often I would hear the roar of traffic, the honking of horns, see glimpses of headlights. And each time, I hunkered down, ready to dive back into the murky depths should the goon squad realize I had been able to shake them.

When I was reasonably certain they were gone, I stood up. I shivered. The night air was cool, but my soaked clothes only made it worse. I took off my shirt and wrung it out. Then I took off my pants. They were caked in grass and leaves and grime. I washed them off in the river, then tied them around my waist. They would dry while I walked.

The whole night seemed surreal. Just a short while ago I had been twirling spaghetti around my fork, ready to hunker down and study ancient Rome, and now here I was, rolling around in the dirt, evading a bunch of evil dudes who may or may not be serious in doing me bodily harm.

I had no idea where I was. We had been driving for between thirty and forty minutes before the, um, spaghetti incident. My best guess was that I was between twenty and thirty miles away from home. I didn't have a phone on me, or any money or identification. All I had were my wits.

Which meant I was kind of screwed.

Come
on, Zeke,
I thought.
You're not as dumb as you think.

Okay. I used to love reading about constellations. Stars and their alignment in the sky. I used to peruse maps of the sky, dreaming of becoming Sagittarius, the Archer, and doing battle with the Hydra, the deadly Water Serpent.

I looked up, trying to use the map of the sky to determine where I was. I scanned the thousands of tiny specks, looking for a clue, something that would allow me to gain my bearing.

Then I saw it. Auriga, the Charioteer. At ten times the size of the sun, Auriga is one of the brighter constellations. I couldn't miss it for the world.

Then, slightly above and to the right of Auriga was Perseus, named after one of Zeus's children (it also happened to be the name of a character in one of my favorite series of books). In the sky, Perseus was slightly northeast of Auriga. I was getting somewhere. I was gaining my bearings.

I began to think I was kind of a bright kid, despite what my teachers said.

Farther past Perseus was Triangulum, the Triangle; Andromeda; and Lacerta, the Lizard. Using those bearings, I knew I had to head eastward. To follow those stars. I wasn't sure if I could walk the full twenty-plus miles to my home in the middle of the night, freezing my butt off, but at least I'd be heading in the right direction.

I climbed up the riverbank, gripping trees and finding footholds among the mud. By the time I got to the bridge I was a sopping, cold, dirty mess, like a pale swamp monster that had just climbed out of the murk in desperate need of a suntan. I began to walk down the road.

My knees were shaking. From time to time cars would pass—but none of them stopped. I held my thumb out like I'd seen in so many movies, but let's be honest. If I saw a dirty kid asking for a ride by the side of the road, I'd probably think he was some sort of hermit waiting to steal my car and then all of my gold.

I kept my mind occupied by replaying some of my favorite spy movies in my head. I wondered what James Bond would do in my situation. I laughed to myself. Bond would have never found himself in this situation. He would have beaten the goons to a pulp, made them compliment his natty suit and impeccable hair, then had a torrid affair with a beautiful bikini model who also happened to be a nuclear physicist.

But I wasn't James Bond. I wasn't a cool kid spy like Alex Rider. I wasn't a spy. I was a twelve-year-old kid with bad hair and occasional acne outbreaks.

Eventually there were no more cars on the road. The moon hung high in the night sky like a brilliant orb. The wind chill grew worse. My teeth were chattering. My hands were shaking. My bones felt tired. I wasn't sure how much longer I could walk.

Then, up in the distance, I saw a warm glow. It was a house, with the downstairs lights on. My eyes grew wide. Somebody was home. Somebody could help me. Surely they'd have a phone I could use, a glass of water to hydrate my aching muscles.

I trudged toward the house, my efforts redoubled. In just a few short steps I would be greeted by an energetic family with warm blankets and soup and a dog to sleep at my feet.

Okay, I could still dream despite everything.

I braced myself on the railing and heaved myself up the front steps. It was an old house with wood that smelled faintly of mildew. A porch swing creaked gently in the wind, its moldy seat and rusty chains looking like its last inhabitants had lived there sometime around the time the last of the dinosaurs died off. The house would have looked desolate and deserted (not to mention really creepy) if the lights hadn't been on.