The deep end, p.11
The Deep End, page 11
Parker glanced at his dad and instantly got a nod. He backtracked—away from the police line—and scooted between two buildings to get onto the street running through the heart of the Neck. Sure enough, an ambulance stood right in front of the Rockport Dive Company with lights blazing and the rear doors open wide.
Harley sat on a gurney, covered with soot. He did not look one bit happy. “Parker!” He motioned him over, coughing and hacking the entire time.
Parker pushed his way past gawkers. “I am so sorry . . . Harley . . . I should have been with you.”
“Forget it. Just take care of Kemosabe—that’s all I care about. They’re making me go to the hospital, even though I’m fine.”
How would he break the news to him? “But the shed—it’s gone. Like . . . to the ground.”
“I rolled Kemosabe out in time—parked it right on Bradley Wharf alongside the wall of lobster traps.”
Thank you, God! If Harley’s bike had been lost in the blaze, there was no telling what he’d do.
“It was Scorza.”
“You saw him?”
Harley shook his head. “BARF BAG was written on the side of the Hangar in giant flaming letters. It was him. Who else would use those words?”
Scorza torched the shed? This was insane. It was all going way too far.
“Don’t let Kemosabe out of your sight, Parks. Keep it safe.” Harley gripped his arm like he thought the paramedics might drag him away before he finished. “Promise me.”
“I promise. Nothing will happen to it. I’ll stay with it until you get back.”
Harley broke into another coughing fit. “I’ll have no place to keep it. Get your dad to roll it up into his pickup. The key is still in it—along with the lanyard and the spare. Just get it out of here. Someplace safe.”
He could do that—and it was a way to blaze a trail back to his friend. “I’m on it.”
“Go!” Harley released his grip. “Don’t let my uncle talk you into keeping it in the dive shop. You’re the only one I trust.”
Parker sprinted past the emergency vehicles and cut along the narrow passage separating Roy Moore’s from the building next to it. He raced past small stacks of traps and came out at the foot of the granite pier jutting out to Motif Number 1. Here the stacks of traps were piled six feet high. Parker ran down one row and up the next.
No Kemosabe.
Maybe Harley actually parked it closer to the Motif building—or on the other side of it, where it would be more protected from sparks or spray from the fire hoses.
Parker ran around the building and back. No. He retraced his steps. Widened his search.
Nothing.
No. No. He gave the entire area a thorough scan. Firefighters focused the hose on the shed now—what was left of it. He could see the entire area clearly from the lights of the emergency vehicles. Cars. Traps. Shops. People. But no deeply chromed 1999 XL Sportster.
Kemosabe was gone.
CHAPTER 20
Sunday, August 7, 10:36 p.m.
ELLA AND JELLY WERE AT THE CURB when Jelly’s dad pulled up—and had the door open before he came to a complete stop. Jelly dove inside and Ella followed. “Go, go, go! We’re in.”
Her dad laid down the safety rules on the short drive. Stay together. Don’t go near the fire. Make sure your phones are on. Just the kinds of things Ella imagined her bio-dad might say—if he’d loved her enough to be around.
Jelly’s dad dropped them at the curb a block away. “I’ll park the car and find you there soon.” He pulled Jelly close and kissed the top of her head.
He turned to Ella as she shouldered open the door. “You be careful, hear?”
There was a strength in his eyes. An intensity. And Ella felt all the stronger for it. Jelly broke out into a run down the sidewalk. Ella did her best to keep up—which wasn’t easy in her cowgirl boots.
They stopped in a sort of stunned silence at the entrance to the T-wharf. The sight across North Basin confirmed Ella’s fears.
Jelly grabbed her arm and stepped off the sidewalk. “We’ve got to see if he’s okay.”
Instinctively Ella glanced up Broadway to check for traffic as they crossed the street—and stopped in her tracks. “Jelly!”
It was Scorza. Loading his bike into the bed of a pickup. An illuminated Lyft sign sat on the dashboard. What was he doing in Rockport at this hour? And why was he in such a hurry to leave that he couldn’t just bike back to Gloucester?
But she knew. Harley had been right all along.
Jelly clutched her arm. “If we tell Harley . . .”
She didn’t have to finish; Ella already knew. He’d do something stupid—and they’d take him away.
“What about Parker?” Jelly actually looked scared. “Do we tell him?”
“He’ll tell Harley—you know it.”
Jelly nodded, like she agreed . . . but was torn at the same time.
“We have to promise each other not to say a word about this.” Ella clutched the cross in her hand and held out her pinky. Adding the cross would make this some kind of an unbreakable oath, right?
“Ahhh—I hate this! A long time ago I promised Parker I wouldn’t keep secrets from him. How can I do this?”
“Think what will happen if you don’t,” Ella said. “They’re boys. Which means they’ll do something. They won’t sit back—not after this. If Harley hurts Scorza and Parker is with him? They’re both going down. C’mon. Pinky promise.”
Jelly stared at Ella’s hand for a moment, tears running down her cheeks. “We have to protect them, right? From themselves?”
Ella nodded. She wanted to just hook her pinky on Jelly’s and seal the deal, then find Harley and Parker. But it couldn’t be one-sided. Both of them would have to agree on this—and right now—or one of them would get weak and tell the boys.
“But if they find out we didn’t tell them what we saw—what if they don’t trust us anymore?”
“They’ll get over it. Isn’t that better than them doing something stupid that will land them in jail?”
Jelly groaned and raised her pinky. Real slow, like she was still fighting it inside. “You think we’re going to regret this?”
Ella gave her a look like that was a ridiculous question. She locked her pinky with Jelly’s. “We’re lying to our best friends. Yeah, we’ll regret it.”
Ella already did.
CHAPTER 21
Sunday, August 7, 10:46 p.m.
THE MOMENT ANGELICA SAW PARKER—she knew something was terribly wrong. He was talking to his dad and Officer Greenwood—pointing toward the Motif. Uncle Ray was there too, looking totally annoyed.
Uncle Ray swore. And not just once. “I told him. I told him. Turn the chrome into cash—before you lose it all. Stupid kid.”
Angelica looked at the smoldering heap of rubble that had been the shed. The motorcycle . . . melted? How could Bryce Scorza do that?
Parker brought her and Ella up to speed in seconds. Angelica grabbed her phone to give her dad a quick update. “And keep an eye out for a big Harley-Davidson motorcycle!” she told him.
Officer Greenwood hustled toward the lobster traps. “Show me where the bike was parked.”
Angelica, Uncle Vaughn, Parker, and Ella followed.
Greenwood pulled out a flashlight. Inspected the ground. “It was here.” He pointed to a pair of indentations. “That’s from a kickstand.” He glanced around. “And I don’t know how anyone could have gotten it off the Neck without being seen. One way off—with an officer blocking the way.”
Officer Greenwood excused himself, got on his radio, and had a quick conversation with someone. Uncle Ray drifted back to the shop—shouting orders at firefighters like he was the only one on the scene who knew what to do.
“This is going to kill Harley,” Ella said.
Angelica was more worried about who he might kill.
Officer Greenwood was back. “I’ve notified the department. They’ll be on the lookout. And no Harley-Davidson motorcycle drove off Bearskin Neck. I’ll do a little cruising. See what I see.”
She wanted to tell him about Scorza. What she’d seen. But clearly Scorza didn’t have the motorcycle. Did he hide it? Or was he working with others? Obviously he was involved in this somehow.
Parker looked desperate. “What am I going to tell Harley?”
It seemed more like he was thinking aloud than expecting an answer.
Angelica’s dad trotted up. “I saw a few people on the way and asked about the bike. Nobody has seen it. Or even heard it go by. And with the exhaust pipes on a Harley-Davidson, they would have heard it go by.”
“So,” Uncle Vaughn said, “you’re thinking somebody might have put the bike in neutral and rolled it away, and maybe it’s still close?”
“Exactly.”
Angelica wanted to believe it was nearby—and that they’d find it fast. But if someone drove it away before the street was barricaded, they could be halfway to Boston by now. The truth was, with the sirens—and the chaos? Somebody could have started the bike—or just rolled it to a different spot—and nobody would’ve noticed.
“Let’s divide up,” Uncle Vaughn said. “Parker and I will take the Neck. We’ll go from building to building. Check every corner big enough to hide a motorcycle.
Angelica’s dad nodded. “I’ll take the girls. We’ll drive around town with our windows down. Maybe we’ll hear it if we don’t see it.”
But Angelica got the feeling this wasn’t about someone stealing Kemosabe to take a little joyride. This was way too choreographed.
An image of the sign that had been posted on the dive shop flashed into her head.
IT STARTS TODAY.
Apparently, whoever had started this wasn’t finished yet.
CHAPTER 22
Sunday, August 7, 11:15 p.m.
BRYCE HAD SET THE LYFT DESTINATION for the Fisherman’s Memorial in Gloucester. It was a shot in the dark. He could have gotten dropped closer to the north end of the bay, where most of the commercial fishing boats were moored or docked. By Gorton’s fish packing plant. But so many of the boats that came to that end were bigger than the one he’d seen take the motorcycle. At least by the Fisherman’s Memorial he’d have a good view of most boats heading into Gloucester Bay. He’d improvise from there.
The longer he rode in the second seat of the Ford Ranger, the more he doubted he’d see the mystery lobster boat at all. It had taken him too much time to get off Bearskin Neck. Too much time to get the ride to Gloucester. And the guy behind the wheel was absolutely ridiculous. He had to be driving ten under the limit the whole way. By the time they dropped down on Western Avenue, Bryce was ready to jump out.
Traffic backed up almost immediately. The bridge over Blynman Canal was upright, letting a couple of boats pass.
“How about I drop you here,” the driver said. “Looks like the bridge is going to be up for a bit.”
Bryce couldn’t get out of the truck fast enough. He pulled his bike from the bed and raced toward the bridge. Hidden among the lobster traps the way he’d been, he hadn’t noticed the name of the boat or even one number of its registration. All he knew was that it was white—like a thousand other lobster boats. But that didn’t matter. He’d recognize the boat instantly. How many boats would be coming to shore with a tarp-covered cargo like that one had? One by one the cruisers and lobster boats motored by, but not one of them had a motorcycle on deck. The bridge lowered back in place. The traffic passed.
Had he missed the boat? Or was it still out there somewhere? He dumped his bike and paced along the waterfront, scanning for telltale green and red lights. He waited another ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Nothing.
The boat could be anywhere. Maybe they hadn’t been going to Gloucester. Maybe they were dropping the bike someplace where only the fish would find it—like three miles offshore. Like out at the Dry Salvages. Maybe Lotitto would be diving out there someday—probably with Gatorade—and he’d get a real surprise. A rusting motorcycle covered with seaweed and barnacles that looked an awful lot like the one he used to keep so protected in his shed. Bryce would pay good money to see the look on Lotitto’s face. The guy would swallow his regulator.
But why would someone go to all that trouble to steal a bike only to destroy it? Only a hard-core enemy would do something like that. How many enemies could Lotitto have? No, the enemy angle made no sense. So the guy named Kelsey and his friend stole it for the money they’d get? Could the bike be worth enough for all the trouble they’d gone through to get it?
And it looked like the goons pulled it off. Got clean away. Harley was probably searching up and down the Neck right now. The police too. But they’d never find the bike there.
In a way, Lotitto was getting what he deserved. Bryce’s idea was a little vandalism to the shed. But somehow, some kind of cosmic justice had been at work and Harley got a lot worse than that. Bryce would have been totally happy about it except for that one little thing. The message written in fire paste. Harley had seen it, and he would tell the police that Bryce was the only one who could have done it. Bryce was going to be questioned about being at the scene of the crime. He still didn’t have a better idea than to deny he’d been there when the shed was hit by the pyro.
Which meant he’d better get back home—and fast. Shower off all scent of smoke. Throw his clothes in the laundry.
The unmistakable rumble of a motorcycle starting grabbed his attention. The thing was a good distance away—but the water had a way of allowing sound to travel. He peered inland. The sound was definitely coming from the direction of the Cape Ann Marina. It had to be Harley’s bike!
So the boat had passed under the bridge before Bryce got there. Okay . . . at least he had a starting point to look for the bike. He had a feeling he’d desperately need that information before this all was over.
He wanted to swing his leg over his bike and pedal like a crazy man to the marina. But the goons were too good. They’d have Harley’s motorcycle hidden away long before he got there.
Suddenly the sound of the motorcycle was gone. How long had he heard the motor running? Thirty seconds? A minute? It couldn’t have been much longer than that. Harley’s motorcycle hadn’t been moved far once it was off the boat. Either someone loaded it onto a truck or the thing was hidden close by—maybe right there at the marina.
Bryce was practically shaking. He was the only one who had any idea where the motorcycle was. It was like he had a superpower. How impressed would Everglades Girl be if she realized that? Lotitto, Gatorade, Black Beauty—none of them had any idea of Bryce’s true abilities. The universe smiled on him. How else could he explain how he’d been at the right place at the right time to see the bike taken, and again at the right place and time to hear it being off-loaded?
Deep in his gut he knew he needed to find the motorcycle. For his own good or protection somehow—and he wasn’t even sure what that meant. But he’d have to trust the superpower inside—even if he didn’t understand it.
Yeah, he’d find the thing. He’d start his search tomorrow. But right now? He had to get home—fast. And get cleaned up and back in his room . . . before the police showed up.
CHAPTER 23
Sunday, August 7, 11:30 p.m.
THE LAST OF THE FIREMEN WERE PACKING UP when Ray felt his phone vibrate. Either it was the kid needing a ride home from the hospital, or the text he’d really been waiting for. Ray ducked inside the back door of the shop and checked the screen. Vinny Torino.
The horse is in the stable.
He read it twice, marveling at how the whole plan came together like clockwork. “You’re a genius, Ray.” He winked at himself in the reflection of the glass, then stepped back outside. The key was to keep himself in plain sight as much as possible. And stay loud. Those who didn’t see him would hear him. Twenty witnesses could say he’d been at the scene the entire time. Not that anyone might suspect he had anything to do with the fire or the missing bike, but staying visible would guarantee nobody ever would.
Even he was impressed with how completely the shed was ruined. Charred rubble, most of it. Trails of smoke rose heavenward like the spirit of the shed itself was crying out to God. Which was a ridiculous thought.
The trouble was, the title for the motorcycle must have been hidden inside. There was no other place it could have been. Sherlock Holmes himself couldn’t have searched Harley’s room any better these last days before the fire. Ray had even combed the tank fill station room. But the loan clock was ticking, and they’d had to go through with the heist tonight. The missing title was the only little glitch in the plan. Ray wouldn’t be able to sell the bike for nearly as much without proof of ownership.
Which meant he’d be coming up short—with only seven days until the loan was due. And the more he saw of Lochran, the creepier the guy got. Okay, so maybe the missing title was a big problem.
But the horse was in the stable now—and Ray would make something happen, right? Maybe some fat corporation would ask him to take a couple of their execs on a dive charter this week. There was nothing to worry about. And Ray had Plan C in motion too. He had an appointment with the lawyer in the morning, right? He’d find a way to tap the kid’s trust fund. And he’d get the money for Lochran—on time or early.
One of the cops drove stakes in the ground and formed a twenty-foot perimeter around the shed with a roll of yellow Police Line Do Not Cross tape.
“Hey.” Ray pointed at the tape. “You think this was more than an accident?”
“Not for me to say.” The cop nodded at the charred rubble. “But for the shed to go this fast, there had to be an accelerant. I’m no expert, but it looks like the work of an arsonist to me.”
Arson. Just the word suggested a high level of skill. Like being certified as a master diver. Or having his captain’s license. “Whoever did this must have really known what they were doing. Think it was a pro?”
