I''ll Be There by Holly Goldberg Sloan
That was a shame, because he was understaffed in the office.
Lamar finished his chilli-bacon cheeseburger and wiped his mouth with his already-dirty paper napkin. This was shaping up to be a helluva mess.
The recovered kid was odd.
Who knew if he was odd before he crawled into someone else’s sleeping bag without his trousers, but he was odd now.
He didn’t answer questions. He took quick, short breaths that were gasps, and the only thing that could get him to come out of the hall and into the interrogation room was a bowl of hard rock candy.
Dr Hardart was going to come down to the station and give the boy a physical examination, but there was a car accident out on the old Red Bluff highway, and she’d been called off to that. And Dr Wallent was out on tribal land doing a two-day women’s health clinic.
It was just a big mess.
And all of this was thrown at Lamar at the same time as the news that his brother Clyde had accidentally-on-purpose fired three shots at their first cousin Pinky after an all-night game of poker at Boomer Heap’s place. Fortunately, none of the shots had landed.
But investigating his own family drama would have to wait.
For now, he’d called in a member of the Utah health services trauma team. They happened to have a big muckety-muck out in the field. Maybe he could get something out of the boy. Because, so far, they’d gotten little more than that the kid wanted a bowl of cereal with very cold milk.
He said he was sorry for getting into the sleeping bag without asking.
He asked for a ballpoint pen and a phone book.
He said he’d seen a bear stand up on two legs.
He said he’d eaten a salamander with an orange belly and that he’d thrown up right after.
He said that the trousers they gave him itched. He said that he was all alone in the world.
Lamar had a headache. After two days of interrogation, it wasn’t a lot of information.
Buzz Nast picked up his fresh supplies once a week.
He’d drive the cattle down into a low meadow that was protected on three sides by steep terrain, knowing that when he got back he’d still have his work cut out for himself rounding them all back up.
Sam had rested for three and a half days, eating nearly all of Buzz’s food. He hadn’t done much talking, because he was too confused to have much to say.
Did everything stop making sense when his head hit the log? Or did the icy water freeze some vital part of his brain?
He was a blank.
The only thing Sam knew, really knew, was that he’d done something wrong. Deeply, horribly wrong.
It was possible, no, it was probable, that he’d killed someone. That’s what he felt. The loss. Complete and total emptiness.
And so it was clear that he had done something very, very bad. Because how else had he ended up here – in the middle of nowhere? Where were the people he cared about in his life? But an even bigger question was who were the people he cared about?
He had no answers. Fortunately, Buzz Nast wasn’t the kind of person to ask a lot of questions.
Buzz thought Sam was between hay and grass, not yet a real man but not a kid any more. The boy had obviously been through a hell of a rough time. He sometimes called out in his sleep, and his legs twitched like dogs’ do when they’re dreaming.
So on Tuesday, Buzz left earlier than usual, knowing that his palomino, Maska, who was no longer honey-coloured but bleached out light from working outdoors in the sun, would need to go slower carrying them both.
Julio Cortez didn’t like surprises.
And Buzz Nast showing up with a busted-up teenage boy qualified as a big surprise. Julio was paid by the ranchers to do drop-offs, and there were always special requests. Cowhands needed help with snakebites, bad cases of poison oak, and even the delivery of love letters, but he’d never had a cowboy try to stick him with a six-foot-two teenager.
It presented all kinds of problems.
Buzz wanted Julio to drive Sam into town and let the authorities sort it all out. Buzz had a job to do and his cattle to tend.
So Buzz loaded up his cans of extra-spicy chilli, his packages of Western Cut teriyaki-style beef jerky and the bottle of Tullamore Dew whiskey. He put a new bag of coffee in his coat pocket along with a sack of dried apple pieces. And then, after barely more than a nod to Sam, he and the sunbleached palomino were gone.
Sam was still wearing the worn jean jacket with the fleece lining that Buzz had given him. He still had on the beat-up blue shirt and the thick wool socks. Sam called out to try to give the clothes back, but Buzz didn’t even look over his shoulder.
Buzz wanted to wish the kid good luck and all.
But he wasn’t the kind of person who could say those things.
So now Sam was Julio’s problem. He stood in the hard light sizing up the teenager.
‘You feel good enough to walk out of here?’
Sam nodded.
Julio continued, ‘’Cause I parked my pickup truck about two miles down.’
‘I can do it . . .’
This was all making Julio very uncomfortable. He turned towards the trail and started walking, mumbling, ‘Okay then. We’ll just go easy . . .’
After five minutes, Julio knew he wasn’t going to have to carry him or anything. Granted, Julio was going slower than regular, but the tall guy behind him was steady enough on his feet to keep moving.
As they walked down the rocky trail, Julio tried to figure out a plan.
He knew that what he should do was take the boy to the sheriff ’s station. Somebody had to be out looking for him. Buzz, in his ten-word explanation, had said that the kid’s memory was off.
But Julio didn’t want to be questioned by the sheriff. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help. He already liked the young guy. But he had his own problems.
Julio had lived in Utah for twenty-two years, and even though he had a son and a daughter both in junior high school in town, and even though he worked as a volunteer firefighter and had a brother who had joined the army and died over in Baghdad, Julio was illegal in the United States.
The idea of law enforcement interviewing him, asking to see papers confirming where he worked, looking at his driver’s license, checking his social security number and his address, these were very bad things.
And Julio knew what could happen. It could be the beginning of the end for him, and twenty-two years of a life might suddenly be gone. So Julio decided to just tell Sam.
‘I got a problem, you know, dropping you off at the sheriff ’s. I can take you into town. But I can’t do no more than that.’
Sam didn’t say anything. Julio mistook his silence for judgment. ‘Don’t worry. I done nothing wrong. But it’s immigration. You understand what I’m saying?’
Sam didn’t understand the system, even when he was of the mind-set to understand something. And so now the idea of going to it for help was as frightening to him, in many ways, as it was to Julio.
Buzz had asked Sam about his parents. He couldn’t remember a mother. And when he thought of a father, his mind started playing tricks on him. He only saw a shotgun, pointed at his own chest.
So Sam said, ‘It’s okay, because I don’t want to go to the sheriff.’ Sam took his time as he chose his words. ‘I want to go back . . .’ But Sam couldn’t say to where.
Julio took a moment before he said, ‘But you should see a doctor – don’t you think?’
Sam considered that notion. ‘I don’t have any money for that . . .’
Sam closed his eyes. He remembered the inside of a hospital. He could see the waiting room. And an emergency room. He remembered the green colour of the walls and a sign that said not to use cell phones.
And then the thought of the cell phone made him anxious. Did he have a cell phone? He remembered one. Sam suddenly said, ‘I want to get on a bus . . .’
Julio continued walking. A bus? Was the tall kid hiding something big? Something dangerou
Julio tried a different approach. ‘What about if I take you into town and you call your parents. Or your friends. What if they help you figure it all out?’
The brainstorm was back. What parents? What friends? He didn’t know family or friends. Sam wanted a bus. Now if he could just figure out where to go.
‘No. I’m going to take a bus. I’ve ridden on buses before.’
Julio mulled it over. This could be some kind of solution.
He could put the boy on a Greyhound bus and get him away from the small town where he lived and the many questions that would follow if he left him there.
So Julio nodded. ‘Okay . . . We can do that.’
And then, satisfied that they had a plan, they continued down the fire trail that led out of the wilderness.
Walking down the single-track fire trail, Sam’s mind, now a blender with broken blades, flashed memories of sounds. Small, damp towns with arguments coming from low-rent apartments. Trailer parks. Cramped rooms next to alleys and businesses. He could hear the past. Music had come out of bars late at night. He heard sirens and freeways. Dogs were barking, and pots and pans were clanging. He heard car horns and low-flying airplanes.
And then, walking behind Julio, he suddenly heard waves crashing and, this time, the sound had an image. Mexico. He remembered being there. Hadn’t he gone in an ocean? He believed that he liked the place. Baja. That would be the plan. He would start over there.
But he didn’t have any money. And he had nothing on him to sell. Would the man walking in front of him pay for a bus ticket to Mexico?
When they stopped to drink some water, minutes later, Julio brought out a candy bar. He split it in two, handing Sam one part as he said, ‘Where do you plan on going . . . on the bus?’
Sam waited. ‘I was thinking to Mexico.’
Julio shot him a look. That was ironic. Was the kid trying to provoke him? Sam looked too earnest, too hesitant, for that. Julio asked, ‘Do you have any money?’
Sam shook his head.
Julio considered his options and decided upon, ‘I’ll get you a ticket.’
Sam looked at him, overcome with gratitude. ‘I’ll pay you back. I promise. I’ll send you the money. I can do jobs, you know, when I’m feeling better and —’
But Julio interrupted him. ‘We’ll figure things out. I’ll get you to a Greyhound bus depot. There isn’t a station in town, but we’ll head west on 138 till we find one.’
Julio was doing the right thing – for the lanky teenager and for himself. If he could wash his hands of the mess, it was worth it. He’d pay to have trouble go away.
36
Sam stood at the ticket window in Price, Utah.
He had two hundred-dollar bills that Julio Cortez had given him in his pocket, along with a chocolate bar, a bottle of water and a handful of aspirin. Sam paid eighty-two dollars and sixty cents for a one-way ticket to Las Vegas.
The man behind the counter told him that from Vegas a bus left every ninety minutes headed to Mexico. Nine were scheduled a day to Tijuana. Eight had routes to Mexico City.
The bus didn’t leave for two more hours, so with the ticket in the pocket of Buzz’s old jean jacket, Sam took a seat in the waiting area next to an elderly lady in a tracksuit. She told him that, because she was afraid to fly, she was travelling by bus to see her cousin in San Diego. It was going to take her two days.
Sam nodded and said he’d never been on an airplane. He didn’t add as far as he could remember he hadn’t. But who knew – maybe he was really a pilot. The old woman took his statement to mean that he was also afraid to fly.
Having a young man as handsome and rugged as Sam tell her that he’d never flown in his life was a huge comfort to Irene Robichaux. The bus station had been remodeled many times over the decades, but the inside still looked close to the way it did sixty years ago when Irene had dreamed of sitting on a bench with a young man like Sam.
And so, when he fell so deeply asleep that his head tilted over and he slid onto her shoulder, she didn’t mind. He smelled like pine trees and campfires and the outdoors.
Irene shut her eyes, and for a long moment felt exactly as if she were seventeen again. Only now she was out late with the most handsome boy in town.
Riley Holland had a lock on being crowned prom king.
At least he did, until the prom ticket price was discounted after Bobby Ellis was pushed down a flight of stairs at the Mountain Basin Inn by one of two men under surveillance who had serious underworld crime connections.
Rumour also had it that the FBI was now involved, because Bobby had gotten a good look at the main guy. Now everyone knew the suspects were foreigners. That’s what Bobby had told Farley Golden, but she was sworn to total secrecy.
Riley Holland was smart and funny, but more than that, he was a good guy. He was considerate – and not because he thought it was going to get him somewhere. It was just his nature.
So of course, when the tide turned and the general consensus went from voting for Riley Holland for prom king to voting for Bobby Ellis, Riley made it appear that he was a little disappointed.
In fact, he was the one behind spreading the word that voting for Bobby was a way to acknowledge what he’d done. To Riley Holland, being prom king was embarrassing. It was like when a pack of girls chanted your name in unison in a big chorus during a football game. Not cool.
But Bobby Ellis didn’t know that.
At Churchill High, the result of the prom voting was announced during the week prior to the event. Six years before, two girls who were vying for the coronation of queen got into a fistfight in the bathroom, and after that the administration decided they needed to be there to monitor the election results. Since it was a junior and senior prom, both classes were eligible. But most years, seniors won.
When the results of the balloting were announced during the assembly in the gym on Thursday before the Saturday night prom, Bobby Ellis went out to the podium to put on the goofy gold crown and have his picture taken next to Summer Maclellan, who was the prom queen and the hottest girl at school. Bobby raised his good arm into the air and repeatedly pumped his fist.
Victory.
It really got the crowd going.
Sitting high up in the fold-out bleachers, trying to appear interested, was Emily. But she found the whole thing impossible to even watch. And so she turned her head slightly and looked away.
And that’s when she had the surprise of seeing Bobby Ellis’s parents in the far corner of the gym. Bobby’s father had one of those mini-video cameras that fit in the palm of your hand, and he was recording the event.
And next to him, Bobby Ellis’s mother was doing the fist pump.
Riddle took the pad of yellow legal paper that was on the table and a pen that was on one of the desks and began to draw. He had been craving using lines to escape for what seemed like forever. And now he would not be distracted from drawing an exact replica of the inside of the dinosaur hunters’ tent by answering a bunch of loud questions.
I will never forget finding the tent.
We slept in tents before. Sometimes when we didn’t sleep in the truck. I will never sleep in the truck again.
Never.
And that is a very, very good thing.
I will never, ever live with that man again. I don’t know where he is, but if I tell them, they might try to find him. That’s why I tell them nothing about what happened.
Because now that is my choice.
And I will never see Sam again. But I will not tell them, because they did not even know him. So they do not miss him. I will never stop missing Sam.
I tell them what I want to tell them.
Because now that is my choice.
Riddle only stared at the table, refusing to talk to the piece of crumpled green felt with eyes that looked like fried eggs. He was at least eight years too old for a hand puppet, and it wou
After two hours, Dr Pincus, the regional director of child services, reported to the sheriff. ‘After intensive evaluation, it is my determination that the minor has been through a traumatic event.’
Lamar waited for more, but Dr Pincus was now signing some kind of form and appeared to be done with his evaluation.
Lamar shot him a look of total disgust and said, ‘You gotta be kidding me! It took you two hours to come up with that?’
Dr Pincus was in his car and back on the road ten minutes later, listening to his favourite call-in talk-radio programme.
Arrangements were made for Riddle to continue to sleep in the juvenile holding area of the law enforcement facility.
The three scientists were still on the hook and had been asked not to leave until Riddle was able to reveal more information. And since there wasn’t much else to do, they kept filming.
You had to attend school on Friday, or you weren’t allowed to go to the prom on Saturday. Emily woke up early and spent twenty minutes debating whether she could stay home sick.
Because thinking about the prom did make her feel ill. But didn’t everything now make her uneasy?
And then, as she plotted a possible fever, another realisation hit her. She was given special treatment now. She could miss class, and Bobby Ellis and his parents would call the school. They’d get permission for her to go to the dance the next day. She could see that all happening.
Hadn’t someone said once that love was attention? No more. No less. But there was attention. And there was obsession. And there was possession.
Sam had never considered possessions. There wasn’t a place in his life for ownership of any kind. It was so unlike everyone else she knew who defined themselves, at least in part, by their things.