Shelter by Harlan Coben
More eye rolling. "Talk about shallow. The hot cheerleader going for the basketball captain? Only one thing you can conclude from that."
"She's right," Spoon said, looking at me solemnly. He put his hand on my shoulder. "You got to figure a way to become basketball captain."
chapter 12
AFTER SCHOOL, Spoon, Ema, and I walked to Myron's house. I grabbed the car keys from the kitchen, and we got into the Ford Taurus. I flashed back to my father teaching me how to drive. We were in an old stick shift in South Africa. I kept flooding the engine and Dad kept laughing. "Ease up on the clutch," he told me, but I had no idea what that meant. I had just turned fourteen. When we traveled in certain remote parts of the world, we would use other names and identifications. The one in my pocket right now was Robert Johnson. It was best, Dad had said, to use fairly common names when going with a fake ID, something people wouldn't really remember or, if they checked, they'd be overwhelmed with information. Robert Johnson was twenty-one years old, a solid six years older than me. I didn't look twenty-one but when you're my height, you can often pass.
The IDs were also impeccable. I don't know how. I asked my father why we needed them, but he was always a little vague about it. "The work we do," Dad said. "We make enemies."
"Aren't we helping people?" I asked.
"We are."
"So how do you make enemies?"
"If you rescue someone, you're often rescuing them from someone." Dad looked off, bit down on his lower lip. "If you're doing good, it's often because someone else is doing evil. Follow me?"
"Yes."
"And those that are doing evil," Dad continued, "aren't afraid to hurt anyone who interferes with their plans."
Ironic, I guess. He was a humanitarian, my father. He survived going against the wishes of despots and dictators in some of the most dangerous and war-torn jungles in the world. He finally settled back in the relative safety of the United States and dies in a car crash driving me to a basketball game.
It was hard not to be angry.
I thought again about Bat Lady telling me my dad might still be alive. Maybe that was what this was all about--finding Ashley, the bald guy in the dark car, Bat Lady herself. Maybe I was doing all this because of the one chance, the one in a zillion, that she meant it. That it was true.
"Make a right," Ema said. "It's on Route Forty-Six."
As we approached, Spoon started sniggering.
"What?" Ema asked him.
"The name of the tattoo parlor," he said.
"What about it?"
"Tattoos While U Wait," Spoon said. "What kind of name is that? While U Wait? Like, how else would you do it? Rip off your arm and say, 'Here, put a snake on the shoulder, I'll pick it up in the morning'? Of course you wait." He sniggered some more.
Ema looked at me. "We have to leave him in the car."
I nodded. Spoon agreed to be our "lookout."
My first thought when entering Tattoos While U Wait was a surprising one: cleanliness. I expected something gritty and grimy, but this place looked more sterile than a doctor's office. It gleamed. The actual workers and patrons appeared rough around the edges, dressed in jeans and T-shirts and, well, loaded up with piercings and tattoos. Tattoos While U Wait could have been a banquet hall holding the Ema family reunion.
"Hey, Ema," the woman at the front desk--classic biker chick--said. She and Ema pounded fists. I was surprised that they would know her as Ema here. I assume that she told them her nickname. More irony. Ema clearly liked a nickname given to her by that ass-tard Troy Taylor.
We found Agent in the back. There were posters of various Hindu gods on the wall, many in states of meditation. Incense burned, tickling my nose. There was soft music playing, a woman repeating the "So hum" over and over in what I guessed was some kind of mantra.
Agent had just finished a huge back tattoo, an eagle with a shoulder-to-shoulder wingspan. His client was using two mirrors to look at it, like a guy checking the neckline at a hair salon.
"Beautiful work, Agent," the man said.
Agent put his hands together in prayer position. "Don't get it wet for two weeks. Make sure you keep the cream on it. You've done this before."
"I have, yeah."
"Wonderful." When Agent spotted us, his face broke into a smile. "Ema!"
They embraced. "Agent, meet my friend Mickey."
Agent shook my hand. His grip was strong, his hand callused. He had long red hair pulled back, and his long beard had a ponytail holder in it. Naturally he was overloaded with tattoos and piercings. "So nice to meet you, Mickey," he said a little too earnestly.
"Same here."
He looked back at Ema. "Do you have a picture of the tattoo?"
Ema nodded. With the quality of the video feed, Ema was able to get a good, clear close-up of the tattoo. She handed the still shot to Agent. He looked at it for maybe two seconds and said, "Eduardo."
"What?"
"That is definitely Eduardo's work. He has a shop in Newark. Would you like me to call him and see who commissioned this?"
"He'll tell you?" I asked.
Agent smiled at me. "If I request the information, yes, Eduardo will tell me. We aren't attorneys, Mickey. There is no tattoo artist-client confidentiality. There is merely trust. There is a reason you are here, Mickey. There is a flow to the universe, a path it has to inevitably follow."
Oookay, I thought.
"Ema came into this shop for a reason. She ended up asking me to be her tattoo artist. That has led to you being here. Do you understand?"
No, I thought, while saying, "Sure."
"Plus, well, Ema has a pure spirit. A delightful chakra. If Ema tells me you need to find this man, you need to find the man. It is that simple."
Ema blushed. "Thanks, Agent."
He winked at her. I again wondered how they knew each other and how, at her age, she could have so many tattoos, but hey, I had my secrets too.
"Please wait here," Agent said, "whilst I call Eduardo."
Oookay, I thought again. The woman kept singing "So hum." Man, that was getting annoying. I looked out the window. Spoon sat in the car. Ema said, "Maybe we should have left the window open a crack. Like with a dog."
I smiled. A man in front of us was getting a wrist tattoo, the needle scraping the skin. He had his eyes squeezed shut, but tears still leaked out. I thought again about Ashley with her pearls and sweaters and wondered how I had gone from searching for that preppy beauty to a New Age tattoo artist named Agent.
More irony?
"Here you are," Agent said, appearing with a flourish. He handed Ema a slip of paper. The name on it was Antoine LeMaire. The address was in Newark.
"Thank you, Agent," Ema said.
"Yeah," I said. "Thank you."
"I would join you on this quest," Agent said, "but I have another engagement."
Ema said, "Work?"
Agent shook his head. "Yoga class."
"Are you still working with Swami Paul?" Ema asked.
"No. The heat of that Bikram was messing with my red chakra. It was making me angry all the time. I'm all about Kundalini right now. You should try it, both of you. I mean, look at me." He spread his arms. "I'm all white lately."
Oookay.
We started for the door when Agent called out, "Mickey?"
I turned.
"You, like Ema, have a pure spirit. You have blessed energy centers and true balance. You are a protector. You look out for others. You are their shelter."
"Uh, thanks."
"And because of that, you have a certain wisdom. You understand that you know nothing about this man you seek. You should be careful before bringing others into his space."
Agent met my eye and I caught his meaning. I nodded. "Thanks for the heads-up."
He gave me a little bow. "You should consider a tattoo. It would look good."
"I don't think they're for me," I said.
"Yes," Agent said with the most knowing smile on his face.
chapter 13
WHEN WE GOT BACK IN THE CAR, Ema said, "Put the address in the GPS."
"No," I said.
"What?"
I had caught Agent's warning, but I wasn't sure I needed it. Here was what I knew about Antoine LeMaire: He had broken into a school and Ashley's locker. He had broken in and assaulted Dr. Kent. In short, there was an excellent chance that he was a dangerous man. I could take risks--that was on me--but I wasn't about to drag Spoon and Ema into that particular hazardous zone.
That would be, uh, red chakra.
"It's getting late," I said. "I'll drop you guys off."
"You're kidding," Ema said.
"No. We aren't going when it's dark."
Spoon said, "Maybe we should stop at that lamp store first."
"Huh?"
"So we can buy Mickey a night-light," Spoon continued. "You know, him being scared of the dark and all."
Ema smiled. "Yeah, little Mickey need a nighty-lighty? Maybe a blankee too?"
I just looked at her. She shrugged an apology and said, "Drop off Spoon first."
I did. Spoon directed me to a two-family house on the outskirts of Kasselton. There was a small truck parked in the driveway. The truck had a crossed mop-heads logo on the side. Cute.
When we pulled up, the front door opened. A man and a woman in their forties appeared. The man wore a janitor's uniform. The woman had a business suit. The man was white. The woman was black.
Spoon shouted, "Mom! Dad!"
He ran up the stoop and they all greeted one another as if a hostage standoff had just ended. Ema and I watched in silence. I felt a pang of envy, but I felt a bigger pang of responsibility. Look at this kid with his loving parents. I couldn't risk putting him or Ema in danger.
Spoon pointed at our car. His parents smiled and waved to us. Ema and I waved back. Ema said, "Wow, look at them."
"I know," I said.
They disappeared into the house.
"So what's the plan?" Ema asked.
"We both go home. We do a little online research, see what we can find out about our tattooed friend Antoine LeMaire. We meet up in the morning and discuss."
"Sounds good." She pulled the door handle. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Wait, I can drop you off."
"No need," Ema said.
"You live around here?"
"Close enough. Bye."
"Wait."
She didn't. She got out of the car and started down the road. I debated following her, but she quickly veered right and vanished into the woods. I thought about pressing the issue, getting out of the car and running after her, but I had my secrets--wasn't Ema entitled to hers too?
I was worried that Uncle Myron might be home. How would I explain driving the car? He knew that I had a fake ID. When he first found Mom and me in that trailer park, I was working under the name Robert Johnson at a nearby Staples. Still, I don't think that he would like me driving illegally to a tattoo parlor or anyplace else, for that matter.
I parked in the garage, grabbed something to eat, and headed down to the basement. I Googled Antoine LeMaire, but nothing useful came up--not even a Facebook page or Twitter account. Pretty much nothing. I put the address into MapQuest. From the satellite photograph, the area looked pretty seedy. I could also see that it was right next door to a place called the Plan B Go-Go Lounge. I frowned and again thought about where my search for Ashley was taking me.
I looked to the wall of old basketball greats.
"What's all this have to do with Ashley?" I asked out loud.
The posters did not reply.
I heard noise above me and then I heard Myron yell, "Mickey?"
"Homework!" I shouted back. Homework was a great word to ward off unwanted guardians. When you yelled, "Homework," parents always left you alone. It worked better than a cross keeping away a vampire.
I stared down at my desk. My laptop was beat up from travel. My dad bought it three years ago when we were in Peru, and so it had been around the world several times over. Funny. I don't have any of his possessions. He had taught me that they were irrelevant. A ring isn't my dad. A watch isn't my dad. None of those things would bring comfort. As my dad had explained to me, no true joy was ever found in a "thing."
But oddly enough, this laptop seemed more personal, more "him," than any of those more classic items might. He had spent time on this laptop. He had composed letters, worked on progress reports, looked up information on this machine. I thought about that sometimes, about his hands on this keyboard.
We each had our own folder--Dad, Mom, and me--and I clicked on his. I moved the files in order from when they were most recently opened. For a moment I was surprised to see one opened only six weeks ago, but then I remembered. Uncle Myron had searched this computer, looking for clues about his brother's fate.
The last file he'd opened--the most recent--was called "Resignation Letter." I clicked on it and the document appeared:
To: The Abeona Shelter Dear Juan:
It is with a heavy heart, my old friend, that I resign my position with our wonderful organization. Kitty and I will always be loyal supporters. We believe in this cause so much and have given so much to it. In truth, though, we have been more enriched than the young people we've helped. You understand this. We will always be grateful.
It is time, however, for the wandering Bolitars to settle down. I've secured a position back in Los Angeles. Kitty and I like being nomads, but it has been a long time since we stopped long enough to grow roots. Our son, Mickey, needs that, I think. He never asked for this life. He has spent his life traveling, making and then losing friends, and never calling one place home. He needs normalcy now and a chance to pursue his passions, especially basketball. So after much debate, Kitty and I have decided to get him settled into one place for his last three years of high school, and then he can apply to college.
After that, who knows? I never imagined this life for myself. My father used to quote a Yiddish proverb: Man plans, God laughs. Kitty and I hope to return one day. I know that no one really ever leaves the Abeona Shelter. I know I am asking a big thing here. But I hope you'll understand. In the meantime, we will do all we can to make this transition a smooth one.
Yours in Brotherhood,
Brad
I read the letter twice more, my eyes blurring with tears. There was noise coming from upstairs, but I ignored it. I already knew most of what was in this letter, I guess. There were no real surprises. But to see it written out like that, stated so plainly by my now-deceased father, it was like a hand squeezing my heart.
Yes, I had grown weary of the constant travel. I had wanted a normal life, in one community, a place where I could join a school basketball team for an entire season, test my skills with real teammates, make lasting friends, stay in one school, maybe apply to college.
Well congratulations, Mickey. You got what you wanted.
I thought about our lives when my father wrote that letter. We had been so great, hadn't we? Mom and Dad had been happy and in love. Now, thanks to my wants, Dad was dead and the only thing Mom was in love with came out of a needle. And the truth--the unmistakable truth when you looked at it with honest eyes--was that it was my fault.
Nice work, Mickey.
The basement door opened behind me. Myron called down, "Mickey?"
I wiped my eyes. "Homework!"
Myron's voice had a happy-little-singsong quality to it. "You have a visitor."
"What?"
I could hear his footsteps coming down.
More singsong. "There's a young lady here to see you."
I spun around. Myron reached the bottom of the steps with the biggest, goofiest, dorkiest smile I had ever seen on a human being. Behind him, coming into view just now, was Rachel Caldwell.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," I said. Mr. Romance.
Myron smiled at us like a game-show host. "Do you kids want me to make you popcorn?"
"How about you, little lady?"
Little lady? I wanted to die.
"I'm fine, Mr. Bolitar, thank you."
"You can call me Myron."
He was still standing there, smiling like the most pleased jackass. I stared at him, flaring my eyes a little so that he'd catch the hint. He did. Awkwardly. "Oh, right," Myron said. "I'll just leave you two alone then. I'm going to head back upstairs, I guess."
Myron pointed up the stairs with his thumb. Like maybe we didn't know where "upstairs" was.
"Great," I said, hoping to move him along.
Uncle Dork took one step and turned back toward us. "Uh, um, if it's okay--and even if it's not--I'm going to leave the basement door open. It's not that I don't trust you two, but I think Rachel's parents wouldn't approve--"
"Fine!" I said, interrupting him. "Leave the door open."
"Not that I feel like I have to check up on you or anything. I'm sure you're both very responsible teenagers."
I wondered if I would ever in my life feel more mortified. "Thanks, Myron. Bye."
"If you change your mind about the popcorn--"
"You'll be the first to know," I said. "Bye."
Myron finally headed up the stairs. I turned to Rachel, who was smothering a chuckle.
"I'm sorry about my dorky uncle."
"I think he's nice," Rachel said. "By the way, is everyone in your family over seven feet tall? Remind me not to wear flats when I visit you."
I laughed at that, maybe a little too hard, but I needed a laugh.
"I've got two tests next week," Rachel said, "so I thought maybe we could get a jump on the French Revolution project?"
"Sure," I said.
Rachel took in the basement. Myron's posters. Myron's lava lamp (yes, he had one). Myron's beanbag chairs. "Cool room."
"It's my uncle's."
"For real?"
"Yeah. I'm just here temporarily."
"From where?"
"All over," I said.
"Nice vague answer," Rachel said.
"I was trying to be a man of mystery."
"Try harder."
I liked the way she said that.
"So, man of mystery, what were you doing by your girlfriend's locker yesterday?"
I almost said, She's not really my girlfriend, but I didn't. "Just checking on something," I said.
"Checking on what?"
"Do you know Ashley?" I asked.
"Not really, no."