Hero (13 page)

Zach hadn’t told Kate about
all
of his new powers, mainly because he was still figuring them out.

One thing he had definitely noticed, though: his senses had suddenly been jacked up.

Jacked up a lot.

His eyesight, which had always been solid when he was reading an eye chart, was
off
the charts now, sharper than hi-def. He was sure that was why his jump shot was suddenly better than ever in basketball.

But this morning it had been his hearing that had gotten him going. Zach had heard Kate on the stairs, even though she had done an expert job of sneaking down. He’d also heard the elevator opening and closing, as though the door were right next to his bed.

He saw the time in the glowing numbers of his clock radio and wondered where she could be going at six a.m. He didn’t like it.

He went to the balcony and saw her with Mitch the doorman.

Saw her head up Fifth Avenue.

Zach didn’t wait. He threw on his jeans and fleece jacket and sneaks, not even waiting for the elevator, taking the back stairs and taking them fast.

He followed Kate at a distance, wondering where the girl who could sleep until noon if you let her was going to so early. He figured the mystery was solved when she went into Starbucks and emerged a few minutes later with a giant cup of what he knew had to be hot chocolate. He waited for her to turn back home.

Only, she didn’t.

And now Zach wondered if he was developing a sixth sense. Because he knew exactly where she was going.

Like she was the one who needed to test herself in the park, the way he had.

He stayed a block behind and out of sight, watched her cut into the park past the Met, watched her go up the steps and take a left, walking toward the maintenance building. Zach kept his eyes on her, was ready to dart off the path a couple of times when she’d stopped and looked behind her. She almost caught him once, so he started jogging in the other direction.

When he looked back, he saw that Kate was no longer alone.

And even from a couple of hundred yards away, Zach could see who was with her on the track.

He saw the guy pulling Kate by her hood and was sure he could hear her silent scream.

And Zach Harriman was on the move.

KNIT
Cap never even saw Zach coming.

Zach grabbed him from behind with a fistful of his black windbreaker.

Before he had a chance to lay a hand on Kate.

Kate watched Zach the way someone watches fire-works on the Fourth of July.

Zach couldn’t believe that Knit Cap had come back here, that he was enough of an idiot to think he could get away with messing with Kate.

His problem, not mine,
Zach thought.

He lifted Knit Cap off the ground, a little surprised at how easy it was, how light the guy felt to him. Then Zach launched him through the air in almost the same motion, like the guys picking up trash in front of his building tossed bags into the back of the truck.

Knit Cap landed hard in the grass.

“Stay out of the way,” Zach said to Kate.

“Nice to see you, too,” she said.

The guy tried to roll up into a sitting position, trying to get up, to fight back. He couldn’t.

“Enough,” he said.

“That’s my line,” Zach said. “You come near her again, even
think
about putting your hands near her again, it will be much worse.”

Zach knelt down in front of him now. He grabbed the front of his jacket, pulled him close and said, “Why are you doing this?”

Knit Cap was breathing hard, no expression on his face, eyes on Zach.

“I
said,
why do you keep doing this? What do you want from me?”

Nothing.

Zach shouted at him now.
“Who sent you?”

Knit Cap finally spoke. “You’re not asking the right questions, kid. At least your father asked the right questions.”

Zach shook the guy now, snapping his head back.

“What do you know about my father?”

“A lot, Zacman,” he said, finishing with the type of smug grin Zach was used to seeing from Spence.

Zach felt like he’d been punched.

Another person who knew that name.

“Now what do you say you let me go?”

“Not until you tell me what I want to know,” Zach said.

Knit Cap grinned again. “You
are
like him in one way, I have to say that. Neither of you knows what he doesn’t know. Or, in his case, didn’t know.”

Zach pictured himself knocking the smile off the guy’s face. Forced himself to breathe before he spoke.

“Again,” he said, “ what do you know about my father?”

“Like I said—a lot. But I’m not the one to tell you, kid, no matter how much you bounce me around.”

And in that moment, Zach knew the guy was telling him the truth, at least about that.

He gave him one more shove, unclenched his fists—when was the last time they
hadn’t
been clenched?—and let him go.

Zach stood up first.

The guy’s grin was back.

“You gotta chill, Zacman.”

“Don’t! Don’t call me that.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. Even on that you gotta chill. You did good today. Better than I expected.”

Then he stood, turned and ran down the track. In a matter of seconds he was gone again, disappeared.

Kate was standing next to Zach now.

“You let him go,” she said.

“He’ll be back,” Zach answered.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

AS
winter made the turn toward spring in New York City, Zach’s mom began to spend more time with Uncle John.

Zach kept finding out more and more about his new self, testing the range of his powers whenever he could. As he did so, he saw his mom finally turning into her old self.

First it was dinner out at a restaurant. Then a Broadway show opening. Then there was a trip to the movies, over on 86th Street, which turned into a weekly event for her and Uncle John.

One time they were coming in just as Zach was preparing to sneak past the night doorman again and patrol the city for a couple of hours, and he’d had to scramble back into his bed.

Finally, one night, his mom downstairs waiting for Uncle John to pick her up, Zach used the
D
word on her.

“What time is your date?” he asked.

She laughed, but in the high-pitched way she did when she was nervous or embarrassed.

“A
date
? With John Marshall? Stop your crazy talk.”

He grinned, letting her know he was playing. “Okay, if it’s not a date, what would you call it?”

“It’s dinner, mister. With maybe some coffee afterward.”

“Well, then, I guess what I’m really asking here is the difference between a date with somebody and going out to dinner, including coffee afterward, with the same somebody.”

“It’s been too long since my last date—with your father, I might add—for me to even
remember
dating. This is dinner. With your Uncle John.”

They were on the long couch in the living room.

“Hey,” she said. “This isn’t bothering you, is it? Me getting out of the house a little for something other than the campaign?”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

“Your Uncle John isn’t just a good friend. He’s practically family.”

“Mom, you think I don’t know that?”

“He was like a brother to your father.”

“A band of brothers, Dad always said. Even though there were only two guys in the band.”

She slid down the couch, put an arm around him, kissed him on top of his head.

“I know you were just kidding,” she said. “But the thing you were kidding about? It’s not like that between John and me. Not now, not ever. Not happening.”

Zach wondered if Uncle John would have answered the same way.

And his mom, being a mom, must have mentioned their conversation to Uncle John, because the next Saturday morning when Zach came down for breakfast, Uncle John was sitting in the kitchen waiting for him.

He was in jeans, sneakers and his favorite Red Sox sweatshirt. It had always been a fun competition between Zach’s dad and Uncle John. Tom Harriman bled the dark blue of Yankee pinstripes. Uncle John had grown up outside of Boston and was a Red Sox fan. It was probably the only thing they’d ever disagreed on.

“Get dressed,” Uncle John said. “We’re going to do something we haven’t done in way too long.”

“What?”

“Young Zachary, you and I are going to have ourselves a good old-fashioned knock-around day.”

Zach rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “With you wearing a Red Sox sweatshirt around New York? Yeah, we’re gonna get knocked around all right.”

“Talk, talk, talk. More dressing, less talking. Adventures await.”

Zach’s first knock-around day with Uncle John was four years ago, when Uncle John saw how much Zach had been missing his dad. Over the years they’d kept up the tradition—always when Zach’s dad was away. The rules were simple: Zach could go anywhere in the city he wanted, sometimes three or four stops before they were through. But he could only pick out one at a time. No itinerary. No game plan. They would just make up a Saturday or Sunday as they went along. Sometimes they’d have a car and a driver, sometimes they’d take cabs, sometimes they’d use the subway.

Always, though, it was big bangin’ fun.

They ate a
lot
of junk food, usually every few hours whether they were hungry or not. Uncle John insisted that knock-around days, if done right, should resemble all-you-can-eat contests.

Since it was already eleven-thirty by the time Zach got dressed and came back downstairs, he announced that he was going to skip breakfast and go straight to lunch.

“Where?” Uncle John said. They had a car waiting for them downstairs.

“Sylvia’s,” Zach said.

The best and most famous restaurant in Harlem. Serving the best food, at least in Zach’s estimation, in the whole city.

“Done.”

They ate like complete idiots, Zach ordering the meat loaf smothered in Sylvia’s “secret sauce,” with garlic mashed potatoes and ribs on the side, followed by coconut cake for dessert.

“You go wherever you want to next,” Uncle John said. “Just drop me off at the emergency room.”

“You’re the one who says we have to pig out.”

“I didn’t know Sylvia was going to bat leadoff.”

“Speaking of which,” Zach said, “I
have
picked where I want to go next.”

“Say the word.”

“Two words: Citi Field. To get us ready for the baseball season.” Zach shrugged. “Unless you can’t get us in, of course.”

Uncle John already had his cell phone out. “Can I get us
in
? Is the pope Catholic? Did the Knicks stink last night?”

“Ouch.”

Uncle John walked a few feet down the sidewalk on Lenox Avenue, came back two minutes later and said, “We’re in. I hope that didn’t take too long.”

He winked at Zach.

A half hour later they were standing in the outfield under the huge old-fashioned Pepsi sign.

“I still don’t understand how you became a Mets fan,” Uncle John said.

“Simple: David Wright.” Then he said, “Am I allowed to run the bases?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Zach stood in the batter’s box, which had already been drawn in brilliant white, even though opening day was still a few weeks away. Then he took off for first, took off for real, running the bases hard, touching the inside corner of each base like his dad had taught him.

Fifteen feet from home plate, he launched into a head-first slide, not worrying about getting dirty, not on a knock-around day. He slid around an imaginary tag, reaching back to touch the plate with an outstretched hand.

“I thought the catcher might have nicked you on the way by,” Uncle John said.

“Nope. Never touched me.”

“First run of the season,” Uncle John said. “Your old man would have been proud.”

As soon as he’d brought up Zach’s dad, Zach could see from the look on his face he was sorry he had.

“Don’t worry, Uncle J.,” Zach said. “I miss him all the time, whether we’re talking about him or not.”

“Me too.”

They walked through the Mets dugout. One of the security guards let Zach have a look inside the clubhouse, which was filled with unpacked boxes waiting for the season. When they were outside in the parking lot, Uncle John said, “There’s a method to my madness today, by the way.”

Zach nodded. “Figured.”

“I don’t want you to have the wrong idea about your mom and me.”

“I don’t.”

“Yeah,” Uncle John said, “I think you do. And I would, too. There’s a line your old man liked to use, from an old joke: ‘It’s not so funny when it’s
your
mom.’ So I get it, young Zachary. I really do.”

“So do I,” Zach said. “Really, I do.”

“But whether you do or not, I want you to understand. I always told your dad that I’d look after both of you if anything ever happened to him. And that’s what I’m doing. Trying to keep a promise to your dad. Not trying to
be
your dad. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Uncle John put out his fist. Zach pounded it lightly. “Pact?” Uncle John said.

“Pact.”

“Now let’s blow this pop stand.”

“‘Blow this pop stand’? Wow. You’re older than I thought.”

“Oh,” Uncle John said, “ you have no idea.”

They ate cheeseburgers at P. J. Clarke’s on Third Avenue when they got back to Manhattan, Zach polishing
them
off with apple pie and ice cream. As he did, he noticed Uncle John staring at him, shaking his head.

“What?”