Blood Relations (9 page)

Joe woke in pitch-blackness. Then a dim circle of red appeared. Without opening his eyes, he knew where he was. He was lying on a beach, his eyes shut against the burning sun. He had a throbbing headache. The tide must be coming in. He felt the water lapping at his neck, his cheeks, his nose.

Then it was lapping at his eyelids, and he forced them open—to find himself staring into the eyes of a calico alley cat whose tongue had been industriously giving Joe's face the once-over. The cat exchanged stares with him a moment, then yawned, curved its spine high into the air, and walked away unhurriedly with its tail straight up for a second. Clearly finding someone unconscious in this alley wasn't anything new to it.

Joe sat up, the blood pounding in his head. Burning sunlight was streaming into the alley. He recalled a gun lying on the ground and looked for it. It was gone. It took him a minute more to discover that his wallet and keys were gone too, his pockets turned inside out. But it was only when he got to his feet that he realized something else was missing. His brand-new running shoes.

He looked at the goon lying at his feet and saw the guy was in his socks as well. Someone must have spotted them lying there in the alleyway. They were lucky to have the clothes on their backs. He walked on wobbly legs over to the prone body of his assailant and pulled off the man's ski mask. The face was completely unfamiliar. Probably pure rent - a-thug, he thought.

By now the shock of waking up battered and robbed was wearing off, and even more painful and important thoughts were popping into Joe's head.

Dunn and the microfilm were now in the crooks' hands along with Callie.

Frank had been jumped by a goon and was now missing. Maybe Frank had been captured, but maybe it was even worse than that.

What really hurt was that right then there was nothing Joe could do to help any of them.

All he could do was what he had been trying to do when the goon yanked him away from the phone. He had to contact Mrs. Rawley and Greg and Mike and tell them what had happened so they could be ready.

Gingerly Joe stepped over some broken glass in the alley and out onto the sunlit Sunday-morning street. Battered, shoeless, his jeans and shirt covered with grime, he looked pitiful. In the distance he saw the telephone he had tried to use the night before. To his relief he saw that the receiver had not been torn off in the scuffle the night before. Joe sped up his pace. Just a quick phone call and then.

"Hello, operator? I want to make a collect call ... " Joe realized he was speaking to dead air. He hung up, then picked up the receiver again and punched 0.

"No," Joe moaned, slamming the receiver down. Of course, it was one of those new pay-before-you-play phones. Where was he going to get phone money?

Then he heard a voice that seemed like the answer to his prayers.

"Hey, fellas, who wants to make an easy quarter?"

Joe turned in the direction of the voice and saw that it came from a concrete school yard. There, beneath a rusted basketball hoop whose net had long been torn away, a group of teenagers had gathered. One of them, a long stringbean of a guy who looked like he was on his way to a basketball scholarship and an NBA contract, was standing bouncing a basketball.

As Joe headed toward them, he could hear the tall kid saying derisively, "I thought you guys were sports. Come on, you don't even have to play me one-on-one if you don't want. We can just shoot fouls. First one misses, he loses a quarter. What could be fairer than that?"

One of the kids around him answered, "Come on, Wes, what do you take us for? We ain't fools. I got better ways to lose my change."

By now Joe had reached the group.

"I hear you offer a quarter?" he said.

Wes's face lit up in a big grin. "My man. Be the easiest quarter you ever made. All you got to do is shoot fouls better than me, and everybody knows I can hardly hold a ball, let alone shoot it."

As he said this, he flipped the ball over his shoulder in the most casual hook shot Joe had ever seen. It went through the basket without touching the rim, while the crowd of kids broke into loud guffaws.

Joe shrugged. "What do I have to lose?" he said with a shrug.

"Just a quarter," said Wes, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You do have a quarter, don't you?"

"Sure I do," said Joe. "You want to see it in advance?"

"Won't be necessary," Wes said. "Just so I see it afterward. You don't look overly blessed with brains, but I don't figure you're dumb enough to bet what you don't have. That would be one dumb move."

He slapped one huge fist into his palm. As if that weren't enough, some of his friends in the crowd made the same gesture. A few of them looked as if they'd just as soon have Joe not pay.

"Come on, man, stop trying to mess up my head and shoot the ball," said Joe, trying to keep his heart out of his throat.

"Just so you know the rules," said Wes, taking the ball and standing with his toes touching a line painted on the concrete. "First I shoot, then you. First one to miss hands over the silver. No credit. No double-or-nothing. Understood?"

"Understood," Joe said, and watched Wes sight briefly, then arc the ball easily through the hoop.

"Your turn, hotshot," Wes said, sending the ball on one hard bounce to Joe as he stepped up to the line.

Last basketball season, Joe had won the district championship for Bayport High by sinking a foul shot in the closing seconds of double-overtime, after a game where he had scored his career high. The school paper had called it the shot of his life after the game of his life.

Right now, though, as he sighted the basket, he didn't feel as if he was going after the shot of his life. It was more like the shot for his life.

His life, and the lives of others.

Linda Rawley. Greg Rawley. Mike Rawley. Not to mention Dunn and Callie and, of course, Frank, if they were still alive.

The basket looked tiny as a star in the night sky and just as far away. The basketball felt as heavy as lead. His muscles felt like water.

"Come on, man, shoot," Wes said, his voice a rasping snarl designed to rub what was left of Joe's nerves raw. "A quarter can't mean that much to you." His voice grew even nastier. "Or can it?"

Joe wasn't sure who shot the ball. It certainly didn't seem as if he had.

He felt like a spectator sitting off to one side, watching a stranger shoot the ball and following the ball's flight. It seemed to arc through the air forever, rising in slow motion and then descending—right through the hoop.

Joe started breathing again.

"Your turn, Wes," he said, finding his voice.

Wes shrugged contemptuously. He grabbed the ball and shot through the hoop.

Joe's turn again. This time it was easier. Through the hoop.

Wes. Another basket.

Joe. He was into it now. He didn't even think of missing. Basket.

Wes nodded appreciatively. His sneer was gone. But his confidence was still there. He grinned at Joe and said, "Not bad, but won't be good enough." He raised the ball in his hands, ready to send it through the hoop again.

Then, just as he was getting the shot off, it happened. A bottle, flung out a window, smashed on the concrete. It sounded as loud as a stick of dynamite. Wes's shot hit the rim and bounded off at a crazy angle.

If Joe had on a hat, he would have taken it off to Wes. The guy didn't complain. He just gave a shrug and tossed the ball to Joe.

In another situation, Joe might have deliberately missed his next shot to be fair.

Not now, though.

He sighted very carefully, then shot.

But even thinking about missing had thrown him off.

His shot, too, hit the rim.

It bounded straight up into the air—then dropped through the hoop.

Wes flipped him a quarter and said, "Okay, let's go at it again."

Joe hated to say it, but did so anyway. "Sorry. I'm quitting while I'm ahead."

Wes gave a grimace of disgust. "You sure aren't from this neighborhood, man," he said, grinning, but his contempt was clear as he left the school yard.

Joe would have liked to explain, but he didn't have time.

He, too, left the school yard and headed back down the street to the pay phone. Quickly he dropped in the quarter, punched the 0 for the operator, and had her call Callie's number collect.

The phone rang three times, then Linda Rawley answered. Her voice sounded tense.

"Who is it?"

Joe heard the operator say, "A Mr. Joe Hardy calling you collect from New York. Will you accept the call?"

"Yes, please, put him on quickly," she said.

"You may talk to your party now," the operator told Joe.

"Mrs. Rawley, what's wrong?" Joe asked.

"They're closing in," she said, her voice frantic. "You have to — "

Her voice was cut off. There was a buzzing noise. Someone had broken the connection, either by hanging up the phone or by cutting the line.

Joe bit his lip. He had to get back to Bayport fast to find out what was going on. Somehow he had to dig up the subway and train fare, since without his keys there was no way he could use his van, even if he could persuade the attendant at the parking lot where he had left it to trust him for the fee.

He turned away from the phone only to find Wes, king of the concrete court, staring him in the face.

"What's the matter?" the dark giant said as he straightened up to his full height. "You look like somebody just ran over your dog." He took a long slow sip from the can of soda in his hand.

"I don't have a dog," Joe said nervously as he glanced down both ends of the street. No escape there. "But I do have troubles. Lots of them, and I hope you're not going to add to them." Joe tensed, ready to fight if he had to, hoping that he could just walk away.

A quick grin lit Wes's face and was followed by deep laughter. "I got troubles enough too, without having to look for any new ones." His face got serious again. "So why don't you chill out. Tell me a little story."

Joe felt some of the tension in his shoulders leave, and then, to his surprise, heard himself telling Wes the whole story. He watched the other youth's eyes light up, his head nod in understanding. As the story tumbled out faster and faster he even found himself hoping that he had a chance to get back before it was too late.