The deep end, p.14
The Deep End, page 14
Neither girl said a thing.
“If this is all connected—the smoke bombs, and then the fire,” Parker said, “Scorza has masterminded multiple crimes—without getting caught. There’s no way.”
Again, that look passed between the girls. Like they could communicate without words as well as he and Harley did when they were diving. “Am I missing something?”
“Yes.” Jelly grabbed a rag from her back pocket. She wiped his cheek. “You’re a sooty mess.”
He stepped back. “I’m serious.”
“What you’re missing,” Ella said, “is a plan. Now that the shed is cleaned up, what do we do next?”
Okay. Both of them dodged his question. There was something they weren’t telling him—and clearly they didn’t intend to. But Ella was right. They needed a plan. There had to be something they could do to find the motorcycle. But Parker had no idea what.
CHAPTER 30
Monday, August 8, 2:35 p.m.
ANGELICA HATED BEING DISHONEST WITH PARKER. Everything he said made sense. This did seem too big for Scorza—at least that’s what she probably would have thought if they hadn’t spotted him grabbing the Lyft ride. The truth was, he probably couldn’t have pulled it off alone. Maybe he had help from some diehard loyal players on the team. But if Parker knew what she and Ella knew? She was pretty sure he’d change his opinion.
And if he did, then what would he do?
Seeing him the way he was now—desperate to help Harley—he wouldn’t keep it a secret from his friend. Then they’d both get themselves in trouble. She was sure of it.
But not telling someone the whole story was as bad as lying. She’d learned that when she covered for her sister, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she promised herself she would never do that again? No secrets?
Parker stood by a neat pile of tools, brushing himself off.
“I can’t lie to him,” she whispered to Ella.
Ella nodded like she understood. “And you can’t protect him if you don’t.”
Ugh. The truth of it hit hard. She would have to choose, wouldn’t she? Be honest or protect him? She couldn’t have both. Or maybe she could put the decision off—she could hold her secret just a little bit longer.
CHAPTER 31
Monday, August 8, 2:40 p.m.
ELLA WAS THE FIRST TO NOTICE Parker’s dad returning. He parked the truck and swung out of the cab.
“Your next job.” He opened a box filled with leaflets he’d had printed. “Just picked them up.”
Jelly held one up and read. “MISSING. 1999 Harley-Davidson XL Sportster. Black, lots of chrome. Custom gas tank with Kemosabe painted across.”
There were more details. A Rockport Police phone number. A silhouette of a motorcycle. And a $500 reward for information that led to the recovery of the bike.
“Great idea.” Parker looked at his dad. “But who pays the reward?”
“Let’s just say some concerned citizens.”
Jelly’s dad exited the extended cab carrying a small bin filled with rolls of duct tape and heavy-duty staplers. “We got the go-ahead from Officer Greenwood. Your job is to canvas the area with posters. Bearskin Neck. Around town. The two of us”—he pointed to Parker’s dad—“will cover Gloucester. Then we’ll hit Pigeon Cove.”
The towns north and south of Rockport. It was a good plan.
“Jelly and I will work as a team,” Ella said.
Jelly looked like she loved that idea. “Parker, how about you take everything from Rockport Pizza up to the train station,” Jelly said.
“The library,” Parker said. “Police department. Fire station. And lots of light poles in between. Maybe Harley can help me after he closes shop.” He stuffed a stapler and a roll of duct tape into the pockets of his cargo shorts.
“We’ll take from Front Beach all the way to Atlantic Avenue,” Jelly said. “The T-wharf. Yacht Club. Bearskin Neck. And as many shops as we can that will let us put one in their window.”
The two men took off in the pickup. Honestly? It would be a good effort. Posters were a great idea. But Ella wasn’t holding out a ton of hope. She didn’t know why she felt it, but she had the definite sense Kemosabe would never be found. But at least the posters would keep them busy. Give them something to do so they felt like they were helping. And maybe it would give Harley more time to cool down—and to accept the inevitable. Kemosabe was gone forever. She just hoped to be there for him when he finally realized that. Maybe if she was with him, she could find a way to keep him from self-destructing somehow.
Parker tucked the stack of posters under one arm. “Think we can get it done by dark?”
“We’ll be done,” Ella said. “Right, Jelly?”
Jelly checked the time. “Way more than enough daylight. But if you are worried you can’t keep up, we’ll give you a hand when we’re done.” She put on an innocent face—but Ella saw right through her.
Harley slipped out the back door of the dive shop at that moment. He paused at the spot where the shed was. Stared at it. Then he walked up to the three of them and picked up one of the posters. He read it without a word. His face serious. Dark.
Any illusions she had that the posters might give him hope vanished.
Parker explained the plan to Harley—about him joining Parker after he closed the shop at six. “You and I will have more ground to cover,” he said. “So we’ve got the tougher job.”
Maybe when it came to posting the Missing signs, sure. The really tough job was keeping the truth about Scorza a secret. But the girls would do it. One look at Harley’s face told Ella they had no choice.
CHAPTER 32
Monday, August 8, 4:15 p.m.
BRYCE WAS TAKING A CHANCE going to Rockport today. But he needed to catch a break, and that usually meant taking a risk. He’d often felt that running a gutsy play had the potential for more yardage. Finding the motorcycle was goal one for him, and he wasn’t going to find it sitting at home and playing it safe.
He pedaled hard. He could think better when he was on the move—and he had to be really clearheaded right now. He was hiding key information about the motorcycle heist, but he had to appear normal. Which was the real reason he brought his football, keeping it tucked under one arm.
His bike ride to Cape Ann Marina didn’t turn up anything helpful. He didn’t find the boat, either. Or if he did, he didn’t recognize it. There were too many lobster boats—and he couldn’t get close enough to the ones moored out on buoys to be sure of anything. For now, the marina was a dead end. He’d seen some nasty dudes steal it. What would they do if they found out there was an eyewitness? And Harley’s rage cage thing? Bryce had to play this smart, and that meant he’d need leverage. Finding Harley’s cycle could prove to be the ultimate get-out-of-jail card. It was the key to everything he wanted right now—especially keeping himself alive.
And the next place to search was Bradley Wharf. Clearly one of the goons had dropped something—and it was important enough that he’d delayed his getaway to look for it. Whatever the thing was, Bryce was going to find it. Hopefully it would somehow lead Bryce to the motorcycle.
Actually, what he really wanted right now was to fast-forward his life. To college—playing with a full-ride scholarship. Thousands of fans jumping and screaming when he walked onto the field. Or better yet, zoom ahead to when he’d join the Marines like his big brother.
“If you want to be Mr. Nice Guy, get a job like most everybody else does. But that wasn’t for me.” Those were Rocko’s exact words to Bryce when he was home on leave. “I’m as mean as I want to be now—and people see me as a hero.”
That actually sounded really good to Bryce. Football wasn’t his end goal. It was a way to get strong. Get tough. Be mean. It was his personal training camp for the military. Then he’d be a real hero. Which was one reason he couldn’t let the arson charge fall on him. Would they even let him in the Marines with that on his record?
Had Officer Greenwood bought the baloney Bryce fed him this morning? The guy had come to the house. Got permission from his dear stepmom to ask him a few questions. Traci Trophy Wife just stood there hugging her little mama’s boy, Jaxon, while Greenwood asked question after question. And Bryce had answered.
“No, I didn’t put smoke bombs in the shed Friday night.”
“Yes, I went to Harley’s shed Sunday night.”
“Yes, I wrote BARF BAG on the shed in fire paste.”
“No, sir, I didn’t light it. I got cold feet. I heard something inside the shed and realized Harley was inside. Vandalism is one thing . . . but setting a fire—with someone inside? I’m not that stupid.”
By the way his stepmom looked at him, even she saw through that one. And Bryce had noticed something else. She also seemed just a little bit scared of him—which was a nice bonus. Bryce was just that much more sure she wouldn’t question what he did—or how late he stayed out.
Whatever Officer Greenwood was thinking, he was smart enough to keep it hidden well. He kept jotting notes. Circling back. Asking about specific times.
“Yes, sir, I went straight home. Gosh . . . you said the shed burned down? I have no idea how that happened. Is Harley okay?”
“No, sir, I only have the one phone.”
“No, sir, I’ve never bought a second phone at Walmart—or anywhere else.”
And that was the big moment. All he had to do was admit to making the 911 call. It would prove he didn’t set the fire, right? But it would also prove he’d been there when the goons set the fire. If word got out? He’d be seen as a loose end. An eyewitness. The only thing that stood between them and prison. The guys who hauled away the motorcycle in the lobster boat were two men he never wanted to see again. Definitely mean—but not the hero type.
Greenwood actually played the 911 call on his phone for Bryce, watching his face the whole time. Naturally, Bryce denied making the call or recognizing the voice. But his dear stepmom moved Jaxon to her other side—so she was positioned between Bryce and Jaxon. What? Did she think he’d set fire to the brat’s bedroom or something?
Greenwood saw her reaction. He had to. But Bryce wasn’t admitting anything. And with no witnesses, what could the cop do, right? Greenwood left, but Bryce got the definite vibe the cop would be back.
If he was suspicious, and that showed up in his report . . . who else might see it? Bryce’s claim of innocence might be a brick wall for the cop without any evidence. But Kelsey and that other goon? They didn’t seem like the type who’d risk even the ghost of a chance there’d been a witness. That was the real reason he had to keep what he’d seen last night locked up in a vault. If the wrong guys found out, Bryce wouldn’t have to worry about scholarships or a future in the military. He also wouldn’t have to worry about how he’d celebrate his sixteenth birthday.
Bryce was never any good at defense. He was all about offense. He couldn’t sit back and hope Greenwood wouldn’t find a traffic or security cam somewhere that would show he was there when the fire started. He couldn’t sit on the bench and pray the goons never got wind that someone may have seen the whole thing.
So he’d stay on offense. He’d find out where the motorcycle was—and fast. He’d lead Harley right to it, and the police investigation would be over. Kelsey and the other goon would crawl back into whatever cave they’d come from. Bryce could see it all play out in his head. He’d be Harley’s hero. No more ex-friend. Harley would drop-kick Gatorade and be part of Bryce’s huddle forever. They’d be running pass patterns on Front Beach like old times.
Bryce saw the first Missing poster near the fire station. The closer he got to town, the more he saw. He stopped and pulled one off a light post. He’d put it up in his bedroom as a souvenir. The thing would brighten his day just looking at it. And he’d use the phone number listed. He’d call in some bogus leads. Keep the cops off the real trail until Bryce found the bike. If Bryce wasn’t the one who found it, Harley would never come crawling back to him like a guilty puppy. And Bryce really wanted to see Harley grovel. Just imagining it made him smile.
Bryce biked right down Bearskin Neck. Parked near Roy Moore’s and hustled down the walkway leading to the patio out back. Harley’s shed was gone—like totally cleaned up.
“That was fast,” he said to no one.
He hoped to find what he was looking for and get out of Rockport fast. No sign of Lotitto—or his friends—which was good.
His hiding spot among the lobster traps was still there. Which gave him all the bearings he needed. Whatever the guy dropped had to be between him and where the boat was parked, right? Actually, it could be anywhere around the shed itself. Or maybe it had dropped into the water when they were loading the motorcycle onto the lobster boat. But this is where the goon kept looking—and it’s where Bryce needed to concentrate.
He stood right where Lotitto had parked the motorcycle before running back to fight the fire. Bryce searched the ground as he walked to where the ramp had been propped. Nothing.
Bryce retraced his steps. Scanned more carefully now. Especially checking the crevices between granite blocks. He toed and swept the gravel with his foot. Moved a couple lobster traps that he hadn’t remembered from last night and peered close to the ground. He stood and looked back to the east side of the wharf, replaying the scene from the night before. He walked to the edge of the granite retaining wall, then did it all over again.
He held out his football like a divining rod, sweeping it back and forth above the ground like it had the power to point him to whatever he wasn’t seeing.
He got the gnawing feeling he wasn’t alone. Is somebody watching me? He broke off the search for a moment and did a slow 360. There were tourists on the Tuna Wharf, but none looking his way. He scanned Outer Basin. Sailboats moored, nose into the wind. No Officer Greenwood sitting in the cockpit of one of them with a pair of binoculars and a walkie-talkie. Which was a good thing. How would Bryce have explained himself?
He was the only soul on Bradley Wharf. He scanned across the inlet to the North Basin. T-wharf had traffic, but nobody who appeared to be watching him.
“Shake it off, Scorza.” It was pregame jitters or something. Nothing more than that. “Get the job done and get out of here.” Hearing his own voice boosted his confidence a bit.
The lobster traps. Had anybody moved one of the stacks? Bryce grabbed the top one off the pile nearest to where the motorcycle had been parked. He set it to one side. Grabbed the second. Then the third. The ground below the last trap looked clear, but he lifted the boxy thing anyway. Something rattled inside the trap, clattering to a stop inside the wire cage.
It was silver—like stainless steel—and would easily fit in the palm of his hand. Bryce’s heart spiked. “You’re amazing, Bryce Scorza!” He heard fans cheering in his head even as he shook the trap and angled it until the object fell to the ground. He ditched the lobster trap, snatched up a very new-looking pocketknife, and examined it. Cut Through the Clutter was screened in orange ink on one side of the handle.
He flipped it over—and stared. PORT KNOX Storage—Gloucester. “Bryce Scorza,” he practically shouted, “you are a genius!”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”
Bryce balled the knife in his fist and whirled to face Everglades Girl—with Black Beauty coming up right behind her.
Everglades smiled. “Didn’t mean to scare the big football hero.”
Bryce waved her off. “I should be used to fans stalking me by now.”
Black Beauty pointed at his football. “The chances of us becoming fans are about as high—”
“As you trading that football,” Everglades Girl said, “for a Frisbee.”
Bryce gave her a once-over. Tour guide shirt. Cargo shorts. Some sort of hiking shoes. Cap from someplace in the Glades. Tiny. Tough. He couldn’t help but smile. “Not a fan? Yet here you are following me. Again.”
“I wouldn’t follow you out of a burning building.” She glanced back to where the shed had been. “Speaking of burning buildings . . . what were you thinking? You could have killed Harley with that fire.”
“I didn’t start that fire. I wrote the BARF BAG thing, but that was it. I was probably back in my bed before that fire started.”
The two girls looked at each other like they weren’t buying it.
“You were here.” Everglades stepped right up to him. The girl was fearless.
Deny. Deny. Deny. “You’re both delusional. Especially you, Everglades.”
“You’re confusing delusional with dangerous. And we are dangerous.” She made a muscle. “Strong as a gator. And as quick as a snake.” She feinted a jab at his face.
He instinctively jerked backward and kicked himself for it.
“Oh yeah,” Everglades said. “Incredibly fast. Remember that, Mr. Scorza.”
Was he smiling? He had to be. The girls really thought they could intimidate him? Entertain him—yeah. They were better than a circus act. But intimidate? Not a chance.
“Harley thinks it was you,” Beauty said. “And if I were you, I’d give him back his motorcycle before he gets his hands on you.”
“I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with whatever happened to his bike.”
Everglades stepped closer. “Yet here you are—right where his bike was before it was stolen. Sure looks like you’re returning to the scene of the crime.”
“Hey, I didn’t touch his bike. I didn’t torch his shed. I already told the police everything I know.”
“Right.” Everglades glared at him. “You told the cops whatever you felt you needed to say to get off the hook.”
Quick. Fearless. And she was smart, too. “I got nothing to hide.”
“Really?” Everglades pointed to his fist. “Show us what you picked up there.”
Beauty stepped up beside her. Shoulder to shoulder. What he wouldn’t give to have an offensive line as protective of him as these two were of Harley and Gatorade.
