Harley. It had to be. Which was good. He’d been way too quiet at the hospital. God, break down the wall between us. Parker rolled over and grabbed his phone.

  He stared at the name. Wilson.

  Hey, Bucky . . . Jelly told me you’re having trouble with some pyro-dude up there. Want help?

  What on earth was Jelly telling him? And it was too late for help now. The bike was gone.

  Not sure there’s anything we can do now.

  Parker sent off the text and waited for Wilson’s response.

  We Miccosukee have ways to deal with guys like him.

  Parker didn’t doubt it. Had Jelly only told him about the smoke bombs—or was he up-to-date about last night?

  Did you hear Kemosabe is gone?

  Yep. Remember, Bucky, Miccosukees are good trackers.

  Was he serious? Like he’d hop a bus or something? Not likely, but it was good to know his friend from Everglades City was still there—and still had his back.

  You’re only half Miccosukee—so that makes you only half a good tracker?

  A smiling emoji popped up.

  Parker fired back another response.

  If we ever need your help, I know I can depend on you.

  Wilson sent back a couple of thumbs-ups—and an icon of what looked like a machete. Exactly the kind of thing Parker would expect from Wilson.

  His alarm was due to ring in seconds. He turned it off and hustled downstairs. He’d grab some breakfast and load the tanks into Dad’s truck.

  Dad was already in the kitchen with Mom. She scooped hot oatmeal into bowls. “You men need something hot in you,” she said. “Especially you, Parker, if you’re going in that water.” She passed him a bowl of brown sugar.

  Fifteen minutes later, they parked the pickup alongside the North Basin of Rockport Harbor—not thirty feet from where Harley’s shed once stood. The sun had just barely said its official good morning, and the horizon still glowed with the remnants of dawn.

  Harbormasters Eric and Maggie idled Alert 1 just off Bradley Wharf. If the two were bothered about being out so early, it didn’t show on their faces. They did what was needed—and then some.

  Harley waited on the pocket of beach just below Roy Moore’s. He already had his wet suit on. The black color suited the brooding look on his face. Ella and Jelly stood beside him. Parker was surprised to see them—but then again not. Ella hugged herself and clutched her cross pendant all at the same time.

  “I have lights.” Harley pointed to a pair of underwater flashlights but didn’t look Parker in the eyes.

  The lights were a good idea. The water still looked black. Parker studied his friend’s face. Harley looked like he wanted to say something but was keeping his mouth shut instead. That only added to Parker’s sense of how much he’d let Harley down. If they found the bike now, all that would change. Parker was sure of it. He prayed silently that it wouldn’t be all scratched up from its trip to the bottom of the harbor.

  Parker’s dad planned to stay topside on the granite pier—along with El and Jelly—tracking their bubbles.

  “When we find it, we stand it up on its tires,” Harley said. “One of us on each side. Then we walk the bottom and roll it back to the beach. We’ll figure out how to get it off the beach once we get there.”

  And Parker would stick with him. Bringing it to Dad’s house. Hosing it down. Taking it apart piece by piece. Cleaning every bit of saltwater off it. By the time they had it back together, their friendship would be back too.

  The two of them readied their gear like they were part of a pit crew out to break a team record. They waded into the shallow water off the beach until they were waist deep.

  Parker glanced up at his dad. Locked eyes with him for a moment. Dad held his hands together as if in prayer—and pointed to Parker. Yeah, definitely pray, Dad. We need all the help we can get.

  “Let’s go.” Harley flipped on his flashlight, shoved his regulator mouthpiece in place, and dropped below the surface.

  Parker followed immediately.

  The water was dark—but clear. The beam of their lights cut right through the black. They kept the lights sweeping from side to side, following the rock wall around the pier. The east side and south end of the pier were their only hopes, really. There was no way Scorza would have dumped the bike on the other side—in plain sight of anyone fighting the fire. Somebody would have seen the splash, even if they didn’t hear it.

  Fingers of icy water worked their way into his wet suit, searching for warm skin. What if this wasn’t Scorza? What if it was Steadman? What if he was suited up himself—knowing they’d check the bottom around the Motif? What if he intended to finish the job he’d started at the quarry? But why risk coming back where anybody might recognize him? He was too smart for that, right? Or did he think he was too smart to get caught? Parker kept scanning ahead. To the side. And looking over his shoulder, just in case.

  Clayton Kingman’s face flashed in his mind. Now there was a guy who could pull something like this off. And he was the type who’d travel from the Everglades all the way up to Massachusetts for a chance to get even. But the attack was focused on Harley—not Parker. And according to Jelly, Kingman was still in jail—and not up for parole. That was a little fact he’d double-checked last night.

  Which brought this back to Scorza—and the improbability of it all.

  Parker kept the granite wall of Bradley Wharf in sight. Harley ran a snake pattern, closer and farther away to make sure they didn’t miss the bike if it somehow rolled farther away from the wall—which seemed like an impossibility given the weight of the bike and how level the bottom really was.

  The search proved as empty as the bubbles rising to the surface from Parker’s mouthpiece. Clusters of seaweed. Lots of rock and sand. Snatches of rope. Bottles. Unidentifiable scraps of metal—rust blistering on all sides.

  They glided silently side by side for the entire length of the granite pier. Harley motioned for them to backtrack—but farther away from the pier this time. The calm Parker had seen on his friend’s face earlier was gone now. They widened their perimeter and searched up to a good twenty-five feet off the wall—definitely farther than anyone could’ve possibly ditched the bike. Harley motioned for them to round the pier and check the other side, but his eyes seemed to mirror the hopeless feeling Parker felt.

  Twenty minutes later they were right back where they started.

  Parker surfaced and pulled off his mask. His gimpy arm had never gained back more than sixty-five percent of the function he had before the alligator attack. After coming up empty-handed, his arm felt even weaker. Dad, Jelly, Ella—all of them were on the beach now. Nobody had to ask what they’d seen down there—or rather, what they hadn’t seen. The answer was obvious.

  Harley did not look good. His face looked pale, despite coming out of the cold water.

  Parker wished he’d say something. Anything. Harley’s brooding quiet was killing him. But Parker had no idea what to say himself.

  Dad waded into the water to help both of them with their gear. Parker knew exactly what he was doing. This was about Parker’s arm and how he’d struggle to remove his gear alone. Right now, Dad’s assist only made him feel more helpless than he already was.

  El and Jelly handed each of the boys a towel the moment they got to shore.

  “We’ll find it,” Dad said—seemingly to no one in particular. “Now we have one less place to look, right?”

  Right. But this was the one place that had been their best shot.

  Uncle Ray sauntered up. Arms folded across his chest, he towered above them on the granite lip of the wharf. Not saying a word. Which was probably good, seeing the mood Harley was in.

  “I’ve got that appointment this morning,” Uncle Ray finally said. “So you’ll be manning the shop, Harley.”

  Parker should have known the guy’s silence wouldn’t last.

  Harley glared up at him through strands of wet hair. His eyes smoldering with hate. “I’ve got to look for my bike.”

  Uncle Ray shook his head. “Not before this”—he pointed at the remains of the shed—“is cleaned up. We could book a charter any day now, and this will be the meeting spot. Can’t have an eyesore like that around.”

  Harley stared at the sand. His fists clenching and unclenching. To some it may have looked like he was trying to warm them. Get some numbness out. But Parker knew better.

  “After that,” Uncle Ray said, “look for the motorcycle. Stay out all night. Not that it will do you a lick of good. I already told you that thing is gone.”

  The idiot uncle turned on his heel and walked back toward the back door of his shop. Harley tore at his wet suit, pulling it off like it was his mortal enemy clinging to him.

  Jelly stepped closer to Parker. “What do we do now?”

  Like Parker had the answers. He had no idea what on earth they were going to do now. But they had to think of something—and fast. Harley was a time bomb . . . and Parker had no idea how little time was on the clock before he exploded—and did something they’d all regret.

  CHAPTER 28

  Monday, August 8, 1:40 p.m.

  HARLEY WORKED THE DIVE SHOP ALONE ALL DAY. Rockport Dive Company opened for business at ten o’clock—exactly when Uncle Ray had the appointment with the lawyer. The fact that he hadn’t come back yet probably meant he was drinking. Celebrating that he’d gotten access to the trust fund—or consoling himself that he’d failed. When he did come back, he’d be bragging or brooding. Harley lost either way.

  The shop had been quiet, but being the only one on deck, it wasn’t like he could leave—no matter how much he wanted to. Parker, Jelly, their dads, and Ella showed up just after Uncle Ray left for his appointment. Officer Greenwood gave them the green light to clean up the shed. The way Mr. Buckman explained it, the police had all the evidence they needed. The fire was definitely arson.

  Harley could have told them that the moment he saw the blazing words BARF BAG. What he really needed was for the police to focus all efforts on finding Kemosabe. Which is what Harley would be doing if he wasn’t stuck here. Part of him wanted to just lock up the shop and get at it. But if Uncle Ray came back and saw what he’d done, there would be trouble. He could live with the yelling and the lectures, but it was the underlying threat that had Harley worried. Sometimes it seemed that Uncle Ray wanted Harley to mess up so he could turn him over to the state. He could get relocated to Boston—or even farther. If that happened, Harley would never get Kemosabe back.

  It was a balancing act. He had to let the police do their thing—and hope they had the tools or smarts to find his motorcycle. But they had limitations. They couldn’t force Scorza to talk. It’s not like they could waterboard him or something—even though he deserved it. As far as Harley knew, there were no witnesses to say Scorza was anywhere near Bearskin Neck last night. Would the police even question him based on Harley’s gut feeling?

  But if the police didn’t turn up anything—and soon—Harley would have to do something to make Scorza talk. If he waited too long, his chances of rescuing Kemosabe would go way down. Oh yeah, definitely a balancing act.

  He drifted to the fill station room and stood at the window overlooking the North Basin. The spot he’d always loved to sit at night to watch the harbor. But now all he could see was the five of them working on the cleanup. They were making great progress. The uprights were all down. Somewhere along the way a dumpster had been delivered. Definitely not something Uncle Ray had arranged—that was for sure. The five of them worked like ants. They grabbed charred debris by the hand and shovelful. The dumpster was almost filled, and the shed that he’d known as the Hangar was nearly all cleaned up. What was left of it, anyway.

  Harley should feel grateful for all they were doing. But they didn’t get it. Nobody did. He didn’t care about the shed cleanup—no matter what Uncle Ray said. If they really wanted to help, they should be looking for the motorcycle.

  The front door bell jangled, and Uncle Ray stormed in, cussing up a regular typhoon. So that answered one of Harley’s questions. The trust fund was unbreakable. Good. Now Harley would have to deal with his uncle’s foul mood.

  “I’d love to take that lawyer out on a little dive trip,” Uncle Ray said. “Out to the Dry Salvages—and leave him out to dry.” He shook a white envelope big enough to hold legal documents without them being folded. “Ironclad. That’s what he said this is.” He shook the papers. “Well, we’ll see about that. I’ll find a loophole. There has to be something.”

  He stomped up the stairs and came back minutes later without the papers. “How are you going to pay back that $3,500? And by the fourteenth?”

  There was no need to answer. He couldn’t pay. Both of them knew that.

  “I’ll get into that trust fund if I have to sue you to do it. There’s got to be some wiggle room.”

  If there was, Harley had no doubt his uncle would find it.

  “I’m going out for a smoke.” And just like that Uncle Ray was gone. No questions about how sales were that day in the shop. No thank you for manning the shop when he should be out looking. Not a word of encouragement about the chances of finding the bike.

  The moment the door closed behind Uncle Ray, Harley bounded up the stairs. He’d never seen any documents about the trust. He just knew it existed. The papers had to do with his future—and something inside him desperately wanted to see them. As if maybe they would provide some kind of proof that he had a future . . . or at least the hope of one.

  Uncle Ray’s door was open a crack, and Harley stopped dead. Instantly he knew this was a trap. He knelt on the floor and inspected the open end of the door. And there it was. A paperclip stood on end, propped against the open door. If he swung it open, the paperclip would drop to the floor without a sound—and Uncle Ray would know he’d been in his room. He’d learned the penalty for that when he was twelve.

  Harley backed away from the door, nice and easy so the paperclip didn’t drop because of any vibrations. “Sorry, Uncle Ray. You’re not going to have the pleasure of giving me the belt this time.” Whatever was on those legal papers wasn’t worth falling for the trap.

  He eased down the stairs and made his way to the fill room. The shed was gone now. And somehow it seemed that all his freedom had been chucked into that dumpster too. His plans for escape. How many times had he told himself he could do this? Put up with Uncle Ray until he was eighteen. Then he’d fire up Kemosabe and make his getaway. Three years down. Three to go. But without his bike? He’d never make it alone.

  Which meant he had to get Kemosabe back. He’d heard once that the first seventy-two hours were critical in a kidnapping. If the missing person wasn’t found by then, likely they never would be. The way Harley saw it, what happened to Kemosabe, his trusted friend, was nothing short of an abduction.

  Seventy-two hours. Harley wouldn’t wait any longer than that. He’d give the police a chance to find it, and he’d look like crazy himself. But if by Wednesday night Kemosabe was still gone, Harley would do this his way. And after he did what he did, there would be no going back to life the way it was.

  On the bright side, he wouldn’t have to deal with Uncle Ray anymore. Likely Harley would be in jail.

  But if Kemosabe wasn’t found, Harley had no future anyway. Scorza hadn’t just robbed Harley of his motorcycle. He’d stolen his past. His future. His dreams. Oh, yeah . . . definitely his dreams. Which is why he’d get his ex-best friend to talk . . . or he’d end Scorza’s dreams too.

  CHAPTER 29

  Monday, August 8, 2:30 p.m.

  PARKER HAD NEVER WORKED SO HARD IN HIS LIFE. He’d felt helpless when it came to the actual search for Kemosabe, especially after the underwater angle turned out to be a bust. But cleaning up the shed was something he could do. Something measurable. And it meant Harley wouldn’t have to waste daylight with the cleanup himself. And secretly, he’d hoped after the cleanup was done, maybe he’d be too tired to beat himself up for failing Harley.

  Not finding the bike in the harbor was a huge setback. Parker had been so sure. Absolutely positive that God was going to answer that prayer and that he’d be helping Harley disassemble and clean the bike tonight. The only thing he’d be doing with Harley was keeping him from retaliating against Scorza . . . and he’d probably mess that up too.

  Harley showed up in the back window of the dive shop a number of times. Probably wishing he could be helping. But he didn’t venture outside once. Not to say thanks. Not to offer them a glass of water. Sure, the guy had a lot on his mind . . . but still. To Parker it was proof that the wall Harley was building around himself was getting taller.

  The shed footprint was still there. A perfectly rectangular patch of clean ground surrounded by scorched earth. Dad made arrangements for the dumpster to be taken away, then left with Uncle Sammy. “Got something to pick up,” he said.

  Parker busied himself picking up their gear. Shovels. Sledges. Crowbar. Gloves. Rake. Broom.

  “I’m going to see if I can get Harley out to see the job,” Ella said. “I’m worried about him.” She tapped on the back door. He didn’t leave the shop, but talked with her in the doorway instead. When she turned their way, she looked more concerned than ever.

  Jelly was on her the moment she got back. “How is he?”

  “Not good.” Ella didn’t look so good herself. “It was his eyes. All I saw was anger. And determination. Like he’s biding his time . . . waiting for something.”

  “Waiting . . . ?” Jelly let the question hang there.

  Ella looked back at the dive shop. “To pay Scorza another visit.”

  Jelly groaned.

  “He can’t get that out of his head,” Parker said. “I know, I know. The whole BARF BAG thing he saw points to Scorza . . . but nothing else does. It makes no sense that Scorza would take that big a risk.”

  Ella and Jelly exchanged a look that was impossible to read.

  “What?” He looked from one to the other. “Am I the only one who thinks this was too big for Scorza to pull off?”

 

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