13

Timothy rides the brakes, keeping his distance. “Cal, maybe we should wait

back and—”

“That’s my — Someone stole my van from the parking lot. Get us up there!”

We’re barely a few hundred feet away as a uniformed cop approaches the

driver’s-side door of my father’s truck. My dad rolls down his window . . . a

few words go back and forth . . .

“Looks like he’s giving him a ticket,” Timothy says as we slow down and veer

toward the shoulder of the road. The cop looks our way, shielding his eyes as

we flick on our headlights. I’m too busy rechecking the license plate: M34

DZP. That’s ours.

“How’d he even get it?” Timothy asks.

Thankful that Roosevelt’s safe at home, I open Timothy’s glove box. “You still

have your—? Ah.” Toward the back of the glove box, his metal telescoping

baton sits among the mess of maps and fast-food napkins.

“What’re you doing?” Timothy asks as I pull it out and slide it up my sleeve.

“Being smart for once,” I say, kicking open the car door even though we’re

still moving.

“Cal . . . don’t—!”

It’s not until my door smashes into a concrete barrier that I realize what he’s

warning me about. The car jerks to the left and rumbles over what feels like a

speed bump. I was so busy looking at the van, I didn’t even see that we were

passing over a small canal, one of the hundreds that run underneath Alligator

Alley.

Just beyond the short overpass, Timothy pulls back onto the shoulder of the

road, flicks on his own blue lights, and stops nearly fifty feet behind the van.

He knows what happens when you surprise a cop.

“Hands!” the cop yells, pulling his gun as we both get out of the car.

“Federal agent! ICE!” Timothy shouts, flashing his credentials and sounding

plenty annoyed.

He’s not the only one. “What the hell’re you doing with my van!?” I shout,

racing forward without even thinking.

“W-Was I speeding?” my dad asks, panicking through his open window and

not seeing us yet.

The cop smiles to himself and raises his gun toward my father. “Please step

out of the truck, Mr. Harper.”

“I — I don’t—”

“I’m not counting to three,” the cop warns as the hammer cocks on his gun.

My father opens his door and climbs down from the cab, his face lit by the

pulsing blue lights. “Cal? What’re you doing here?” he stutters.

Behind me, Timothy freezes.

On my right, just as I pass the open door of my van, there’s a low roar that

rumbles like thunder. I turn just in time to see a snarling brown dog with

pointy black ears and pale yellow teeth.

“Stay, Benoni,” the cop warns, never lowering his gun. With his free hand, he

shoves my dad toward me. The movement’s too much for my father, who

bends forward, holding his side.

As the cop finally turns and points his gun at all of us, we get our first good

look at him. The headlights of the van ricochet off his grown-out copper red

hair and thick eyebrows. But what lights up most is the prominent tattoo

between his thumb and pointer finger. “Nice to finally meet you, Cal. You

should call me Ellis.”

14

“Wait — Okay, wait — Why would—?” I look around at my dad and Timothy,

at this guy Ellis and his gun, and at the attack dog that’s perched in the front

seat of my van. “What the crap is going on here?”

“Ask your father,” Ellis says. “Though good luck in getting the truth.”

“Me?” my dad asks, fighting to stand up straight but still holding his side. “I

don’t even know who you—”

“My father was a liar, too,” Ellis says, pointing his gun at my dad. “He lied

like you, Lloyd. Easily. Without even a thought.”

“Cal, I swear on my life, I’ve never seen this man.”

“That part’s true. You can tell the way his left hand’s shaking,” Ellis agrees as

my dad grips his own left wrist. “But I saw you tonight, Mr. Harper. The way

your son came to your aid, taking you to the hospital: He needs to rescue,

doesn’t he? That was pretty fortunate for—”

“Hold on,” I interrupt. “You saw us in the park?”

A chorus of crickets squeals from the Everglades, and my father draws

himself up straight, blocking the headlights and casting a shadow across both

Ellis’s badge and his face.

“Calvin had no hand in this,” my dad says.

“Really? Then why was he so quick to get rid of that hold notice on your

shipment?” Ellis challenges, motioning with his gun. He has handsome,

chiseled features and the ramrod posture of an officer, but from the perfect

Windsor knot of his uniform’s tie to the shine on that expensive belt he’s

wearing, he’s got his eye on something bigger. “It’s pretty convenient having

a son who used to be an agent, isn’t it, Lloyd?”

As they continue to argue, my brain swirls, struggling to — It’s like trying to

fill in a crossword without any clues. For Ellis to know we got rid of the hold

notice . . . For him to steal my van from the port and bring it out here . . .

That’s the part I keep playing over and over. When I pulled up to the port, I

checked half a dozen times — whoever this guy Ellis is, no matter how good a

cop he is — there’s no way he was trailing me. But if that’s the case, for him

to get my van — Once again, I run through the mental reel. Roosevelt’s at

home, which means there’s only one other person who knew where it was

parked. The one person who picked me up there. And the only other member

of law enforcement who hasn’t said a single word since I got out of his car.

There’s a metallic click behind me. The swirling blue lights stab at my senses,

and my stomach sags like a hammock holding a bowling ball.

“Sorry, Cal,” Timothy says as he cocks his gun behind my ear. “Once the

twins were born . . . Those braces aren’t gonna pay for themselves.”

15

Hundreds of People’s Choice Award–winning movies tell me this is when I’m

supposed to shake a fist at the sky and yell, “Nooo! Timothy, how could

you!?” But I know exactly how he could. His ethical apathy is why I

approached him in the first place. And why I didn’t bat twice when he offered

to sneak me inside the port instead of signing me in and getting a proper

pass. I thought he was doing me a favor. All he was really doing was making

sure nothing linked the two of us together. My heart constricts, like it’s being

gripped by a fist. Dammit, when’d I get so blind? I glance at my dad and

know the answer. The only good news is, I apparently wasn’t the only one

Timothy was trying to keep hidden.

“Cal’s already seen it — you, me, all of it!” Timothy shouts at Ellis. “And what

about the van!? What was your grand thinking there? Bring it out on the road

and hope no one notices?”

“Watch your tone,” Ellis warns.

To my surprise, Timothy does, his shoulders shrinking just slightly.

“You said you just wanted the shipment,” Timothy adds through gritted

teeth, fighting hard to stay calm. “Now you have far more than that.”

The pulsing blue lights pump like heartbeats from both sides. I’m tempted to

run, but that won’t tell me what’s going on. On my right, in the front seat of

the van, Ellis’s dog, protective of its master, growls at Timothy, whose gun is

still trained on me. On my left, my father stares at Ellis, then Timothy, then

back to Ellis.

Then he looks at me.

I see desperation every day. For the homeless, it overrides despair,

depression, even fear. But when my dad’s wide eyes beg for help . . . I’ve

seen that look before — all those years ago when the cops came and arrested

him.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he blurts.

Across from us, Ellis pulls the cuff of his shirt out from the wrist of his

uniform’s jacket, then flicks the safety on his gun. “I don’t care. We’ve waited

over a century. I want my Book.”

Just behind me, my father puts a hand on my shoulder. There’s nothing

tender about it. For the second time, I tell myself to run, but the way he’s

gripping me — he needs the handhold to help him stand.

“All you had to do was leave the van downtown!” Timothy says to Ellis. “But

with this — You know how much harder you just made this?” Timothy

explodes, barely looking at us. This isn’t about me. Timothy is the same old

Timothy. Just protecting his share. “Don’t you see? Now that he knows I’m

working with — Sonuva—! You just wrecked my damn life!”

“He’s right,” I interrupt, knowing this isn’t a ride Timothy can afford to let me

walk away from. Time to work the weak spots. “But if I disappear, they’ll go

talk to all my friends, co-workers . . . even former co-workers,” I add, raising

an eyebrow at Timothy. “You’ll get a call tomorrow morning.”

Timothy knows what I’m up to — he had the same hostage training with the

same dumb tricks for getting the bad guys to fight among themselves — but

that doesn’t mean it won’t work.

“You don’t even see it, do you?” Ellis asks, sounding far more comfortable

than he should be. “I’ve already won.”

“Not if there’s a manhunt for Cal’s killer!” Timothy shoots back as the blue

lights continue their assault. “You promised me no risk at all!”

“No, I promised you an easy reward.”

While they argue, I work the telescoping baton hidden in my sleeve toward

the inside of my forearm. I’ve heard enough. Time to let actions speak louder

than—

“Be very careful about your next move,” Ellis warns as he points his gun at

my face. I freeze. He’s clearly planning to pull the trigger, but he’s not quite

ready to do it yet. “I can see the baton, Calvin.”

Next to him, Timothy shakes his head, his anger now exploding. “This was so

stupidly easy and — Dammit! How could you be so stupid!?”

The dog barks. But Ellis, who’s now close enough that I spot the odd red

thimble-shaped nozzle on his gun, is calmer than ever. “It’ll work out fine,” he

says.

“For who?” Timothy challenges. “For you?”

Ellis nods, raising his eyebrows. “You were right about the manhunt. But

there’s no manhunt if I give them Cal’s killer.” Without another word, he

points his gun at Timothy’s neck. I want to jump forward, but my body steps

back.

“I have twins! For God’s sake!” Timothy says in horror.

Ellis grins. “It is for God’s sake.”

Fttt.

The dog barks again. A tiny fleck of blood hits my cheek. And Timothy falls to

the ground.

Behind us, at least a mile or two up the road, a set of faint white eyes blink

open. There’s a car back there. Coming right at us.

16

“Ohnonono!” my father stutters, still clutching my shoulder as he stumbles

and pulls us back.

Ellis stares over our shoulders at the car that’s coming our way.

“Hand me his gun,” Ellis says to us as he motions to Timothy, who’s flat on

his back with what looks like a pinprick at his jugular. There’s no stream of

blood as his body convulses like a snake and he continues to threaten and

scream. First, Timothy’s left knee freezes awkwardly, cocked out to the side,

then his torso stops moving. In less than a minute, he’s motionless on the

pavement. He looks dead, his gun still clutched in his hand.

“I’m waiting,” Ellis adds, and for the first time, I see the new reality he’s

building. If he shoots us with Timothy’s gun, then leaves my van here along

with Timothy’s unmarked car — now the picture shifts: It’ll look like Timothy

and I were having a late night get-together . . .