Every hidden thing, p.12
Every Hidden Thing, page 12
Obviously she didn’t get the show, so there was absolutely no sense arguing with her. “All I’m saying, is that sometimes what looks supernatural—or paranormal—is just an illusion. There’s usually a reasonable explanation.”
“Yeah,” Ella said. “Like ghosts.”
As if there were no other way to account for what was going on.
“I gotta go. Grams is still kind of rattled. I need to be back before dark.” She took the duffle of watercolor supplies from Parker. “And I’m guessing you’re going to stay right here and call Jelly. It’s about that time.”
But first he’d hustle back and retrieve the tanks. “Tell me more about the strange things going on—and maybe I can come up with a different theory.”
Ella started toward Front Beach again. “Other than ghosts?”
Parker shrugged. “I told you. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
Ella walked backward for a moment. “Stick around here long enough . . . and you will.”
CHAPTER 22
BUGS. SNAKES. GATORS. Humidity that sucked the sweat—and the life—right out of him. Those were all on the highlights reel for the Everglades. The place gave him an overall bad feeling in the creepiest kind of way. The Glades was a place of death—and when Dad got the transfer to the Boston area, Parker was totally on board with the move. When he thought back to his life there, he missed some of his adventures with Wilson, for sure. But even all these months later he honestly couldn’t think of a single thing he truly missed about Everglades City.
Just a single someone.
Angelica Malnatti. Jelly. A park ranger’s kid just like Parker. Their dads were best friends—and had somehow managed to finagle things to work at the same National Parks at the same time since before Parker and Angelica were born. Until this move, that is. Parker had called him Uncle Sammy for as long as he could remember, even though they weren’t blood relatives. After Dad got the transfer to the Boston area, Jelly’s dad turned in his paperwork for the same. At first, it sounded like Uncle Sammy would get the transfer quickly. Jelly wanted out of Everglades City as much as he had. But the months dragged by—and still no moving truck.
Something was different about Jelly lately. He’d noticed it on the last couple of calls, but then second-guessed himself on it. It seemed that the more he adjusted to life in Rockport, the more desperate Jelly seemed to get out of Everglades City. She asked a million questions about El. Even asked Parker to send a picture—which he never did. How weird would it be to take a picture of El—to send to Jelly?
He’d have never guessed Jelly and her dad wouldn’t be living here by this time. Who knew what her sister, Maria, was doing. Parker never asked Jelly about Maria—and thankfully, he didn’t really care. Not like he used to.
Parker went back for the luggage with the tanks, rolled it down Bearskin Neck, and dragged it onto Front Beach. He sat on the rocks with a killer view of Sandy Bay and propped his phone on a nearby boulder to give Jelly more of the full effect of the spot.
She answered on the first ring.
“Parker!”
He could hear the smile in her voice—even before he saw her face on the screen.
She wore his Wooten’s Airboat Tours cap—like she did for every phone call. “Guess where I am,” she said.
It was a little game they’d played every week. He usually called from a different spot as a way of letting her explore Rockport and the surrounding area before she even moved into town. And somehow Jelly never managed to be at the same place twice in a row herself. Even though he couldn’t see much of the background, it wasn’t hard to figure out where she was today. “The Marina. On Chokoloskee.” The sun had already dipped below the horizon and the sky was ablaze with orange.
“Oooh,” she said. “Very good. But where at the Marina?” She swept the phone in a quick arc like she was giving him a hint.
“On the dock.” Where Clayton Kingman had threatened him. Oh yeah, Parker knew the spot. He hoped the sicko never got out of jail.
“And I’m sitting,” Jelly said, “right at the end.”
Sitting? “Show me your feet.”
Jelly trained the lens at the water—with her feet dangling just below the surface.
Parker’s heart slammed into high gear—and instinct kicked in. He looked for bubbles. Approaching ripples. The terrifying black snout of an alligator. “Sheesh, Jelly. Get your feet out of the water.”
Instead she swished them back and forth, creating just the kind of disturbance that would attract gators. Of course she wasn’t about to listen to him. And if he said any more, she’d get just what she was likely fishing for: proof that he still worried about her.
He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of taking the bait. “I’m at Front Beach—looking over Sandy Bay. Behind me is the Captain’s Bounty on the Beach motel and the Old First Parish Burying Ground.”
“All I see are rocks,” Jelly said.
Which was one of the best things about the coastline here. Massive rocks, power-eroded from tides and squalls that gave the shoreline a beating. The rocks appeared smooth from a distance—but if you took a tumble on them? The coarse surface would peel away your skin faster than fifty-grain sandpaper on a belt sander.
“What’s with the suitcase? Are you thinking of moving back down here,” Jelly pointed at the screen, “or are you running away from home?”
“Hilarious. I got the tanks filled. It’s easier to roll them home this way. Any word on a transfer?”
Jelly smiled. “Soon.”
But she didn’t say it like she believed it anymore.
“You’ve been saying that for months.”
Jelly moved her head from one side of the screen to the other—like she was trying to see past Parker. “Ella there with you?”
Her question sounded innocent enough—but Parker wasn’t that stupid. He shook his head.
“That’s a shame,” Jelly said. “I just thought I’d say hi.”
Drop dead was more likely what she wanted to say. Jelly was careful enough not to show her colors, but Parker wasn’t exactly color-blind either. “You two will really like each other. I know it.”
“Why wouldn’t I? Did you see her today?”
Here we go. “Actually, she just left.”
“Really.” The camera was on her feet again. “Too bad I missed her.”
“Too bad you’re going to be missing a foot soon,” Parker said. “Are you going to get your feet out of the water or what?”
Jelly reversed the camera—and smiled. “What did you and Ella talk about?”
“I thought this call was for you and I to catch up,” Parker said.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Jelly said. “So what did you two talk about today?”
The thing of it was, he’d already sent Jelly a picture of the knife from his grandpa. Texted her about the note—and how things were at a complete standstill as far as anything new about Devin Catsakis. The only things he hadn’t told her about were the things he and El had talked about. Like the strange things going on at their place. He gave Jelly the whole rundown—including the weird questions about ghosts.
“She’s right about Scooby-Doo,” Jelly said.
“Don’t even start.”
Jelly laughed in that musical way she did that made everything in the world seem right. Talked to him about how often things seem worse than they are. The kind of fluff-talk that makes you fool yourself into believing maybe everything will be okay.
“So does Ella dive?”
Back to El again? “Nope.”
“Perfect. I was thinking of taking a class when we move up. Maybe we can take one together. Then Ella and I could be dive buddies.”
What’s with the obsession with Ella? “She likes to paint water—not swim in it. You can dive with me—unless you lose your legs to a gator first.”
She whirled the camera down to show her feet tucked under her on the dock. “See? Crisscross applesauce. Way ahead of you. Like usual.”
“Terrific. And do me a favor. Don’t let Wilson talk you into any adventures out in the wilds, okay? Just stay away from the Glades.”
“Deal . . . cross my heart. And you stay away from—” Jelly stopped abruptly and smiled.
“Stay away from what?”
“Actually,” Jelly said, “it was more of a who.”
He had her cornered. Now he’d finally get her to admit she was jealous of El. “And who should I stay away from?”
She laughed again. “Ghosts.”
CHAPTER 23
THE ROCKPORT DIVE COMPANY closed at six on weekdays. Now that summer was here, Uncle Ray had Harley working the shop from open to close—but kept his pay at five bucks an hour. There had to be a law against that.
“Gotta earn your keep, boy.” Those were his uncle’s exact words. And what did that even mean? Harley bought most of his own food. Loaves of bread and peanut butter for lunch and dinner. Cereal and milk for breakfast. Not that Uncle Ray didn’t offer him mac and cheese when he felt like cooking, but Harley never took it. It was bad enough his uncle said Harley “owed” him for the room he slept in. He didn’t want to feel he owed him for food, too.
Uncle Ray flipped the Open sign on the door window to the other side where he’d handwritten Gone Diving. The only place Uncle Ray would be diving tonight? Into a bottle with his drinking buddies in Gloucester. Lately he’d been going out almost every night. He never said where, but he definitely came back smelling like a bar. Friday was Uncle Ray’s official “party night” as he called it—and that meant he’d be so drunk he’d have to climb the stairs on all fours.
Uncle Ray grabbed the whiteboard he kept propped in the front window. Erased the last dumb thing he’d written, and pulled out a marker. RAY’S RULES OF DIVING: THINK like a fish. DRINK like a fish. Uncle Ray read his new slogan aloud and grinned. “I think I’ll put this on some T-shirts. What d’ya think?”
He never waited for an answer, but set it back up in the display window. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”
Harley straightened the Rockport Dive Company T-shirts on the merchandise racks and grabbed a broom to sweep up. Uncle Ray popped open the register and pulled out all the cash. He peeled off two Jacksons and dropped them on the counter for Harley. The rest he stacked into a bundle, folded it in half, and stuffed it in his jeans pocket. “For party night.” He motioned his chin toward the door. “Lock her up after I go.”
Like Harley always did. He pocketed the twenties.
The bundle of cash bulged in Uncle’s pocket, and he slipped out the door without a goodbye or a look back. The guy robbed his own store—then went to the bar and got robbed himself. He probably wouldn’t have a dollar in his pocket by the time he staggered home.
Twenty minutes later Harley had the counters wiped, floor mopped, and the dry-erase marker in his hand. He picked up Uncle Ray’s new sign . . . THINK Like a Fish. DRINK Like a Fish. He added one line: STINK Like a Fish. He put the sign exactly back where he’d found it. “Put that on a T-shirt, Uncle Ray.” How long would it take for Uncle Ray to notice? Harley hoped he’d be around to see his reaction.
Harley locked the front door and slipped out the back. He picked his way around lobster traps to the shed—or the Hangar, as he’d started calling it. And Hangar was the right word. Inside were the set of wings that would fly him out of here someday . . . away from Uncle Ray.
The Hangar was bigger—and way nicer inside—than it looked from the outside. Harley was careful not to go in the shed when Uncle Ray was around. The last thing Harley needed was for his uncle to remember what was in there—and how much cash it would bring if he sold it.
The double-door entrance to the shed was wide enough to roll Kemosabe in and out easily—especially with the small ramp he’d built. He took a careful look over both shoulders before fishing the key from around his neck. He opened the padlock and let both it and the chain thud to the ground.
He liked the sound of walking across the wood plank floor inside the shed. Like he was on the boardwalk of some western town. Harley closed the shed doors and slid the 2×4 crossbeam in place to secure them—locking himself inside. It reminded him of something pioneers would do to their log cabin doors to protect their families from wild animals or war parties. A red light glowed from the switch on the power strip. He toggled it on, and the Hangar came to life with an incredibly bright shop light suspended from the shed rafters. The light drove out every shadow in the shed and made working on the bike a dream. His dad would have loved that light.
The inside walls had several scavenged road signs hanging throughout. ONE WAY. DEAD END. NO PASSING. WRONG WAY. DETOUR. SPEED LIMIT 70. In the spaces between metal signs he’d hung watercolor paintings and old license plates. Cars mostly. Some motorcycle tags. But all of them from states he’d been to with his dad—or hoped to ride to someday on his own.
The shed had only one window, and he’d coated the inside of the glass with white spray paint. He didn’t want anyone peeking in to see the bike or tools stored there. Still, he’d wanted a view. He’d solved that problem by secretly sending someone in to buy Ella’s watercolors at the Farmer’s Market. Every place he hung a painting was its own kind of window.
He’d made a table out of an upended lobster trap, and a five-gallon pail made a pretty decent chair. Cereal boxes were lined up on the mini-fridge sitting in the far corner. He’d picked the thing up at the curb on garbage day nearly a year ago—and the thing still worked. It kept the chocolate milk cold for his cereal. Harley made two quick PB sandwiches.
His dad’s thirty-six-inch, seven-drawer tool cabinet sat at the far end of the shed. Uncle Ray had tried to get his mitts on it. To sell, of course. But the tools went with the bike—and Harley pushed back. If it wasn’t for the lawyer who worked out the whole custody thing, Harley would have lost the tools and the bike. Dad had bought the tools so they could work on Kemosabe together—and nobody was going to take them away from Harley. He’d kept them locked tight in a storage container until the Hangar was ready.
Harley grabbed a screwdriver from the drawer, removed the screw from the bottom corner of the NO PASSING sign, and slid it to one side. He’d made hidden shelves between the studs behind the sign—which fit a couple of plastic food storage containers perfectly. One held the extra set of keys for Kemosabe—and the title—along with other treasures from his dad. The other was the cash stash.
He took the twenties out of his pocket and tucked them away inside—and screwed the sign back in place. Money he’d hidden in his room early on had a way of disappearing, so now everything with value went to the Hangar. If his uncle had any idea how much money was squirreled away in this shed, he’d tear it apart board by board until he found it. Uncle Ray was still trying to get at the money from Dad’s life insurance policy. The lawyer said it was locked up tight in a trust. Harley hoped so, because locks didn’t mean much to his uncle.
Kemosabe sat in the middle of the Hangar, under the softest blanket Harley could find at the thrift store. Even hidden under that covering, the strength of the bike showed. Like it was hunkered down in its own set position, ready to fire off the line of scrimmage.
Harley lifted the blanket corner, then pulled it back far enough to expose the drag bars Dad had bought to replace the straight handlebars. They’d swapped out the original banana seat with a Badlander. Thinner—but still comfortable. The original gas tank was way too boxy. Dad picked up a stretch tank that followed the shape of the motor. The thing had dual chrome gas caps. Dad had it custom painted—with the name Kemosabe added below the Harley logo.
They’d pulled off the stock air cleaner and replaced it with a side-draft model. Sold the front wheel and bought an eighty-spoke wheel instead. It was a nightmare to keep clean, but it totally changed the look of the bike.
Together they’d put a bobtail fender above the rear wheel, and chopped and shaped the front fender to about a third of the size of the original.
Except for the name Kemosabe in deep red, every painted part on the bike was black. The rest was chrome.
The best part about Kemosabe was the exhaust. Dad had said the last thing a guy wants to do is ride a Harley with a stock exhaust. They ended up outfitting it with one-and-three-quarter-inch straight pipes. No muffler. No baffles. Nothing to slow—or quiet—the bike down.
When Kemosabe was finished, and they took it on rides, other bikers noticed the chromed plates that filled in gaps between the motor and other parts on the bike. They’d ask Dad where they could buy them for their bike. “You can’t,” Dad had said. And he was right. Together they’d picked up mild steel at the hardware store. They’d cut, ground, filed, and chromed plate after plate to give Kemosabe a streamlined look like no other bike on the road.
Kemosabe wasn’t flashy in a foo-foo way . . . but the thing would turn heads.
Harley wolfed down the last bite and brushed the crumbs off his palms. He opened the shed doors wide and swung one leg over Kemosabe like he was mounting a horse. He wrapped his hands around the grips and checked the clock. He still had plenty of time to fire it up and get it covered again before Scorza showed up.
He reached for the second key around his neck and slid it into the ignition. Kemosabe fired up immediately, like it had been waiting all week for this. Another benefit of nights when Uncle Ray was gone. The last thing Harley wanted was to remind his uncle that the motorcycle even existed. His uncle had sold off everything else his dad owned—including Dad’s Dyna Wide Glide. Uncle Ray kept every dime. Said it was to pay the rent for the piece of ground the Hangar stood on.
It didn’t take any imagination at all to picture Kemosabe begging him to back it out of the shed and take a quick run to the end of the harbor and back.
“Soon enough, Kemosabe. Soon enough.” He revved the engine. The deep rumble was just about the best sound on earth. The vibrations traveled through his entire body as if showing off its power. And in a way, the thing infused Harley with a strength that made him feel totally invincible. Like his body was a human battering ram. Like he could punch a hole between any guard and tackle and sprint for the end zone.
