The deep end, p.18
The Deep End, page 18
Bryce grabbed the bolt cutters. Bounced on the balls of his feet a bit to work off the jitters. And really, there was nothing to be nervous about. Besides cutting a few locks, he’d really done nothing all that wrong—or even dangerous. Yet.
CHAPTER 40
Wednesday, August 10, 8:10 p.m.
HARLEY SAT IN THE BACK SEAT OF THE UBER and crossed off the first item on the list from Uncle Ray. What was the story with all the deliveries? Why not have the customers come to the store to make the pickups? Uncle Ray couldn’t possibly get them to add a Don’t Drink and Dive T-shirt to the order if they weren’t in the store, right?
But he knew what this was all about. This was Uncle Ray’s way of keeping Harley busy. Uncle Ray wanted to be sure Harley didn’t have time to pay Scorza a visit. It would be bad for business, isn’t that what he kept saying? So, the Uber driver was pretty much his babysitter. The way Harley saw things, it didn’t matter how many deliveries Uncle Ray gave him. He’d be paying his ex-best friend a visit tonight. And he’d find out what Scorza had done with Kemosabe.
Uncle Ray thought he was smart. He’d paid for the Uber up front—and had worked out the entire route with him. What he hadn’t figured was that in addition to the packages, Harley had brought his bike along. He’d asked the driver at the last minute. “After the last stop, I think I’d like to just bike home—if it’s okay with you. And if there’s more time on the meter—consider it a bonus if you keep it between the two of us.” The driver was happy with that deal, and the bike fit easily in the back of his SUV.
A business card holder was mounted where a passenger could grab a card. Tony Bernardi. Harley pocketed one, just in case. Uncle Ray had tipped the guy well and paid for a full ninety minutes. Bernardi was happy enough to wait at each house while Harley went to the door with the package. A special-order prescription mask for one customer. A repaired regulator kit for another. The first two drop-offs were in Rockport. The next, Pigeon Cove. The last couple were in Gloucester.
It was after nine when Harley dropped off the final package in Gloucester. “We made great time, Mr. Bernardi. I’ll just take my bike and ride from here.”
“You’re the boss.”
Harley definitely was. The guy pulled into the public parking lot on the waterfront, and in less than a minute he was gone. Harley stood there with his bike. Part of him wanted to just sit out on the docks by the lobster boats. If only he could turn back time. He’d have moved Kemosabe after the smoke bombs. To Parker’s house, for sure. Someplace Scorza wouldn’t have found it.
But Harley had messed up. Hadn’t expected Scorza to outmaneuver him like he had. Harley had to stop looking back—and only look forward now. He had to stick with what he knew to be true—and not get lost in the rearview mirror. And the truth was, the police weren’t going to find Kemosabe. Seventy-two hours . . . and no leads? To put any hope in the Rockport PD would be stupid. And his friends could keep searching online for Kemosabe—or body parts—but they’d have more luck reeling in a 400-pound tuna on ten-pound test line. The job was too big. Harley had to accept that—and stop depending on others to find his motorcycle.
Tonight was his one chance to find out where Kemosabe was hidden. He’d lure Scorza outside somehow. Ring the doorbell and drag him out of the house if he had to. And if Scorza didn’t start talking—fast—he’d have to pound the information out of him. Hit fast. Hit hard. Hit to inflict maximum pain. How many minutes would he have before the police showed up? Hopefully enough. Because after tonight he’d be arrested—and probably wouldn’t be going home again. Finding Kemosabe would make it all worth it, though. And it might be his ticket to freedom—if he could prove Scorza stole it.
He swung a leg over his bike and pushed off. He was going to do this. Yet deep inside he knew he was making a mistake. What would Parker do? He’d pray. That was fine for him, but Harley didn’t exactly know how one connected with God that way. Ella would be disappointed in him, wouldn’t she? But maybe she and Jelly would understand why he had to do this, right? At least they’d see he wasn’t afraid to fight for what was right.
When the police took Harley away, would he still be able to be friends with them? He hoped to God that he could. He needed them. But he had to do the very thing all of them had been trying to keep him from doing. What other choice did he have? Isn’t that why he’d been pulling away from the three of them these last few days? Hadn’t he been trying to get along without them somehow, knowing he was probably going to lose them anyway?
The whole thing was a gamble. If he avoided Scorza, he’d keep the friends he valued most—but lose the only thing he treasured. The one thing that connected him with his dad. He’d lose his dad all over again—and he’d be farther away than ever. It was like that grave would be twelve feet deep instead of six.
“God . . . I need some help.” What was he thinking? That he could just talk to God like Parker did? That he could just ask God to work all this impossible mess out somehow? No . . . he was on his own here.
He was only a half mile from Scorza’s now. “Last chance, Harley. Play it safe. Keep your friends—but say goodbye to Kemosabe? Say goodbye to the future Dad was trying to give you? Say goodbye to who you really are—your identity?” He thought about that for a moment. “Or do you take the gamble? Do you ignore the impossible odds? Do you take a chance that Scorza will spill his guts and tell the truth . . . that you’ll get the bike back, yet somehow keep your friends—and your freedom—in the process? Do you dare risk everything . . . for the chance to have it all?”
But he knew the answer. He’d known all along. “Let’s do this, Harley. Roll the dice.”
CHAPTER 41
Wednesday, August 10, 9:15 p.m.
ANGELICA WANTED TO MOVE. Hated sitting around doing nothing but watching Scorza’s house. But she promised she’d stay put. They had a perfect view from about a hundred feet away. And now that it was dark, there was no chance they’d be seen. A security light lit the driveway from a second-story eave on the house. Scorza’s Jeep Wrangler was parked right in the middle of it, like it was onstage basking in a spotlight.
Dad had dropped them off just before dark, and he was coming back before ten o’clock. He’d laid down the ground rules and had grilled her and Ella about following them to the letter. Under no condition were they to leave their post. They weren’t to step one foot closer to Scorza’s house—no matter what happened. If Harley showed up, they could shout to him from where they were, but they weren’t to risk getting in the middle of something. Angelica and Ella agreed to everything. To break the ground rules would break trust—and she could kiss goodbye the leeway he’d given them. Worse than that, she’d disappoint her dad . . . something she absolutely would not do. Not after all he’d done for her.
Bryce Scorza arrived home just minutes after Dad had pulled away.
“Looks like he just won the Super Bowl,” Ella said. “What’s that all about?”
Scorza swung off his bike and dropped it on the front lawn. He raised both fists over his head and did a little victory dance around the Wrangler parked on the driveway—watching his own reflection in the windows. Angelica wished she’d caught it on video. But who could she show? “The guy is completely vain.”
Ella agreed. “It’s like he thinks he has an audience of fans even when he doesn’t.”
“So,” Angelica teased, “you’re still not a fan?”
“No more than you.”
A light turned on in an upstairs room a minute after he went inside. Since then, everything had been quiet. And boring.
It was after nine thirty when Ella nudged her and pointed. Someone walked toward Scorza’s house. Dark pants. Dark hoodie—with hood pulled up far enough to shadow the entire face. It was definitely too warm out for a sweatshirt. A guy would only dress like that if he didn’t want to be seen. But his build was a dead giveaway. “Harley?”
Angelica’s heart sank. It absolutely was. “I had sooo hoped he wouldn’t.”
Ella pulled out her phone. “If we can’t go to him, at least we can text him. Let him know we’re here. I don’t think he’ll do anything if he thinks we’re here.” Her thumbs flew across the screen.
Harley turned onto the drive, then hesitated for just a moment once he got even with the Wrangler.
“What’s he up to?”
Angelica had no idea, but she didn’t like the looks of it.
He pulled something out of his pocket—then suddenly used it on the hood. “It looks like he’s writing something on the hood with a marker.” But even from this far Angelica could hear a metal-on-metal scratching noise. “Harley, no! Has he answered yet?”
Ella shook her head.
“I’m calling him,” Angelica said. She whipped out her phone and dialed. It went right to voicemail.
Harley hunkered at the driver’s side door like he was fumbling with the lock. An instant later he leaped inside.
Angelica watched, stunned. “What is he doing?”
“We have to stop him,” Ella said. But that would mean leaving their post—and doing what she promised she wouldn’t. The truth was, she stood frozen . . . like she couldn’t move even if she wanted to.
The Wrangler roared to life, suddenly backing down the driveway. “Harley, no!” Angelica didn’t dare shout. Scorza would look out his window. He’d call the police.
Harley threw the Wrangler in gear and lurched forward, nearly hitting the curb before straightening out and racing down the middle of the street. He gave the horn a double tap.
Ella was on her feet—phone to her ear. “I’m trying him again. He’s got to ditch that car before the police catch him.”
Angelica dialed Parker. It was instinct. But what could he do? What could any of them do? Nobody could blame Scorza for ruining Harley’s life now. He was doing a terrific job of it all by himself.
CHAPTER 42
Wednesday, August 10, 9:45 p.m.
PARKER DUG HIS PHONE OUT OF HIS POCKET, hoping it was Harley.
“Do you know where Harley is—right now?” Jelly’s voice, definitely stressed.
“I haven’t seen him in over an hour. He’s probably still making deliveries for his uncle. He’s going to call when he—”
“He did something really stupid.” She filled him in on every gut-twisting detail.
Stealing Scorza’s Jeep? That was grand theft auto, right? On top of breaking the boundaries of the restraining order? Not good. Not good at all.
“He’s lost it, Parker,” she said. “He went right over the edge.”
And Parker hadn’t been there to stop him. He’d only had two jobs to do, right? Find Kemosabe. Keep Harley from doing something stupid. Parker had failed on both counts.
“What will happen to him?” There was a desperation in Jelly’s voice.
Parker was pretty sure she knew exactly what was going to happen. “He’s going to get arrested,” Parker said. “And this time they won’t go easy on him.”
“My dad is coming. I gotta go. We’ll look for Harley,” she said. “If we don’t find him in fifteen minutes, I’ll ask my dad to drive us to the dive shop.”
“I’ll talk to my mom and dad. We’ll meet you there.” Parker needed to see Harley. To ask him why he did it—without even giving Parker a chance to talk him out of it. Not that it would do any good now. But still. “We have to find him—before the police do.”
CHAPTER 43
Wednesday, August 10, 9:50 p.m.
HARLEY REHEARSED EVERYTHING IN HIS MIND, like he was running a pass pattern. Only he wasn’t. He was going to drag Scorza out of the house and beat the truth out of him. He cut through the Walgreens parking lot, picturing the whole thing. Scorza would be on his knees—admitting everything.
“Harley!”
He hit the brakes and glanced over. “Grams?”
She stood by the door of her Camry, motioning him over. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you!” She looked heavenward. “God sent me an angel!”
He circled around and hopped off his bike.
“My key is not working. At first, I thought it was the little battery inside, but the key isn’t going into the slot, either.” She waggled the keys in front of him. “This is making no sense.”
He glanced at the car. “Mind if I try?”
“I wish you would. And I’ll bake you a Blueberry Ghost Pie if you get it open.”
He pressed the unlock button on the remote, scanning the parking lot as he did. A set of headlights blinked two aisles over. “Ah, Grams? This isn’t your car—unless you’ve gone back to strapping Ella into a baby car seat.”
She looked in the rear side window and beamed. “Lord Almighty! Right make and model, wrong address.”
He aimed the remote toward Grams’s car and hit the emergency button this time just long enough for Grams to get a bead on where it was.
Grams pulled him into a hug. “You earned yourself a pie, young man. And a ride home, too. You shouldn’t be out all hours. And where are the girls?”
He shook his head. “Not with me.”
“They said they were helping you with something.”
He didn’t want to get them in trouble, but obviously Grams got her wires crossed—or the girls were totally bamboozling her. Maybe he wasn’t the only one with a hidden agenda.
She started toward her car. “Let’s get your bike loaded in—”
“I can’t.” He said it way too fast to come off as casual as he wanted. “I have to stop somewhere.”
“You just show the way and I’ll—”
“No . . . I have to pay someone a visit.”
She looked at him like she knew. “Harley. Anger is a demon. You let that devil ride along with you and soon he’ll want to drive.”
“I have to do this.”
A siren wailed—and not far away. A second one answered—but from a different direction.
“Hear that?” Grams shook her head. “It’s a sign. You’re not supposed to do whatever it is you think you need to do. Let me drive you home.”
The sirens seemed to be converging—and right in the direction he was headed. “Thanks—and I’m sorry. Grams, I’m going.” He backed away.
She shook her head. “Son, you’re already gone.”
He mounted his bike on the run and pedaled like a crazy man. He stopped a block from Scorza’s and watched the first police car roar up. What was going on?
What if somebody had phoned in a tip to the Missing hotline? Would Scorza be that stupid, to hide the motorcycle at his house? On the other hand, who would have suspected he’d bring it home, right? But how on earth did he get Kemosabe past him—and all the way here?
Scorza ran out the front door—along with his dad. Using lots of hand motions, they were explaining something to the cop, pointing at the empty driveway. If the police suspected Scorza had Kemosabe stashed there, they sure were in no hurry to slap cuffs on him. Something didn’t feel right about all this. And where was Scorza’s Wrangler?
“Get out of here, Harley.” He spoke aloud to himself. “Make it quick.”
He whipped his bike around and rode off in the opposite direction. He took the next corner and hadn’t gone two blocks before he saw the Wrangler smashed into a tree halfway up somebody’s front lawn. He pedaled up to it, fishtailed to a stop, and dropped his bike.
The driver’s door was open—with nobody inside. Unbelievably the motor was still running. What if the gas line got ruptured in the crash? What if it caught fire—or blew up? Someone could get hurt. Harley reached inside and turned off the ignition, pocketing the keys.
The airbags hadn’t deployed, so maybe the hit wasn’t as bad as it looked. Still, whoever was driving could be injured. Wandering around dazed or something. He flipped on the flashlight app and scanned the steering wheel for blood. Nothing. Then the front seat. Nothing but a black hoodie—inside out. The light picked up a name written in Sharpie on the tag. Harley.
What was his sweatshirt doing in Scorza’s Wrangler?
Almost instantly the pieces flew into place. “I’m being set up.” Scorza had swiped his hoodie somehow. Faked his Wrangler being stolen . . . and planted the evidence inside. He was one step behind Scorza . . . again.
“Get out of here, Harley,” he said out loud again. His heart was beating in his ears. He swept the flashlight around the inside of the Jeep one more quick time to be sure no other incriminating evidence was left behind. He panned across the entire dashboard—and saw letters scratched into the hood.
“No.”
He swung the light onto the hood. BARF BAG—in big letters—and right down to the metal. How would he explain his way out of this? He had to get back home—fast. Maybe if he got there quick enough the timeline wouldn’t work. It would prove he didn’t do this.
Harley pulled the hoodie on and grabbed his bike. He mounted on the fly and scooted between two parked cars and onto the middle of the road.
He saw the headlights too late. Harley swerved as the driver slammed on the breaks, tires screaming. Harley glanced off the bumper. Rolled a couple of times, then got right back up on his feet again. He stared into the headlights for an instant, then grabbed his bike off the ground. He ran next to his bike for several steps before jumping on and pedaling like crazy.
His adrenaline fueled his legs for two blocks before he worked out his next move. Skidding to a stop, he whipped out his phone—and the card from the Uber driver.
The guy answered on the first ring—way before Harley had a chance to catch his breath. “Need . . . pickup . . . fast . . . Mr. Bernardi. Where you . . . just dropped me.”
CHAPTER 44
Wednesday, August 10, 10:05 p.m.
JELLY’S DAD BROKE THE SILENCE. “Everybody okay?”
Ella still held the passenger seat in front of her in a two-handed death grip. She was definitely a little shaken up by the screeching stop. But she was massively rattled by who she’d seen rolling across the pavement before disappearing again. “I’m okay.”
