Nothing to Lose (14 page)

I took the bag and the hat from him and started toward the back of the house.

“Where are you going?” Nick said.

“To put this away.”

 

 

Henri came down from her studio and asked if we were hungry. I glanced at my watch. It was late. Neither of us had eaten since lunch.

“I was thinking of ordering pizza,” Henri said. “Are you guys interested?”

“Definitely,” I said.

When the food arrived, we took it into Henri's den and Henri popped a movie into her DVD player. Halfway through, she nudged me and nodded at Nick. He had fallen asleep on the couch beside me.

“He had a rough day,” I said.

“It's not every day you get hit by a car,” Henri agreed.

We decided to let him sleep. When the movie was over, Henri said, “Should we call someone?”

I told her that there was no one to call. “He lives alone. His aunt knows where he is.”

“Well, in that case,” Henri said, “I guess I'd better find some sheets.”

She was back a few minutes later with a couple of pillows and two heavy wool blankets. Nick woke up long enough for Henri to check that he wasn't suffering from the effects of a concussion. Then we tucked him in and left the room. As Henri pulled the door shut, she said, “Be good, Robyn.”

 

 

As I got ready for bed, I stared at the shopping bag with the money in it. Now that I had it, what was I going to do with it? I lay back on the bed and tried to decide if I should call my father. But what would I tell him? That Nick was up to something that might or might not be illegal? Who was I kidding? What type of legal activity could possibly involve surreptitiously collecting money—a
lot
of money—from people and then handing it over to a mysterious, unknown party? If I told my father about it, what would he do—besides forbid me to deliver the cash? He would say it didn't smell right. And then he would want to alert the police. And what would
they
do? Put Nick under surveillance? Question him? Knowing Nick, he wouldn't cooperate, not if it meant breaking a promise. So he would get in trouble. Again. And Nick couldn't afford any more trouble. Not with his record. Not when he was trying so hard. He was in school. He was working—well, he
had
been working. But I believed he was trying. I really did. If there was any way that I could make sure that he and trouble didn't have a head-on collision, then I'd do it. But how? And what was I going to do about the money? Or that sealed envelope?

I tiptoed to the door and peeked out. All the lights were out on the ground floor. Henri had gone upstairs and Nick was asleep in the den. I closed the door, picked up the bookstore bag, and tipped it out onto the bed. Out slid the bright pink hat and the thick envelope, folded and held shut with rubber bands. I slipped off the bands and opened it up. Inside, with the money, was the smaller, sealed envelope, the one that had felt different.

I crept over to Henri's rolltop desk. I felt like a criminal as searched the drawers. Finally I found what I was looking for—a box of plain white envelopes. I pulled one out and held it next to the sealed envelope. It was exactly the same size. Nick would never know the difference. I ripped open the seal and spent the next few minutes staring at what was inside.

The envelope contained two documents: a passport for a girl I had never seen before and a visa for entry into the United States. Why were they in with the money? Who was Nick delivering them to, and why? I could think of only one explanation. It wasn't even remotely legal.

I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost midnight. I had been up for twenty hours. Nick had said that I had to be at the parade at noon. I put the money, the documents, and the hat back into the bag and set it at the foot of the bed. Then I set the clock's alarm for eight. I planned to get up early, think things through, and decide what to do—after I'd had a good night's sleep. I told myself I had plenty of time.

 

 

I was dressed like a Swiss Miss. My mid-length curly hair had miraculously grown long enough to be braided into two thick plaits. I was in the mountains—the Alps, I think—watching dozens of little clouds that dotted the mountainside. No, wait. Not clouds. They were sheep. Bleating sheep. The sound coming from those sweet, fluffy creatures was surprisingly annoying.

I rolled over and opened one eye.

I wasn't in the mountains after all. I was in Henri's spare bedroom. And the bleating was coming from the alarm clock. I squinted at it. My other eye popped open. I grabbed the clock and bolted upright.

Eleven o'clock. I had set the alarm for eight and it was now eleven!

I threw back the covers and raced out of the room. The door to the den was closed. I relaxed a little. Nick was still in bed. He had probably been as exhausted as I was. I hustled to the kitchen in sock feet and checked the clock over the stove. Yup, it really was eleven o'clock.

I heard the front door open and close again. Henri appeared and set a plastic shopping bag down on the table. She shrugged out of her coat.

“It's really chilly out there,” she said. “But sunny. I went down to the waterfront and took a long walk. Nothing like a good stroll to get the creative juices flowing.” She held up the bag. “I've got bagels. They were still warm when I bought them. Want one?”

I glanced back at the door to the study. “I should probably wake Nick.”

Henri laughed.“He was up when I got up. He looked a lot better than he did last night. I fed him before I went out. That boy has a
big
appetite. He was sitting here reading the newspaper when I left.” She nodded at the Sunday paper, which was spread out on the table. I glanced at it—and gasped. “Is something wrong?” Henri said.

The paper was open to the Metro section. I picked it up. The lead story was about a shooting the previous night in Chinatown. There was a picture of the victim beside the article. I recognized him even without reading the name printed underneath. It was the cook from the restaurant where Nick and I had had lunch yesterday. Mr. Li, the man Nick owed a favor to. He had been shot dead in the alley behind the restaurant.

I ran to the den and shoved open the door.

“Robyn,” Henri called after me. “Are you okay?”

Two pillows sat one on top of the other at one end of the sofa. Next to them were two neatly folded blankets. Nick was gone.

I ran to Henri's guest room.

I had left the bag with the money at the foot of the bed. It wasn't there anymore. Nick must have taken it. But why? I had said I would deliver it for him. Hadn't he believed me? I glanced at the clock. I was sure I'd set the alarm for eight, but when I checked it, it was set for eleven.

I dressed quickly and went back out into the kitchen.

“What time did Nick get up?” I said.

“I came down at seven and he was already awake.”

“What time did you go out?”

“Maybe half an hour later. Why?”

Nick had gotten up early. He must have seen the article in the paper. And snuck into my room, taken the money, and reset the alarm. I headed for the door and pulled on my jacket and scarf.

“What's the matter, Robyn?” Henri said. “Where are you going?”

“To the parade,” I said as I opened the door. “To find Nick.”

 

 

By the time I reached the parade route, it was almost noon and the streets were jammed. The people who had arrived the earliest, right up front, came prepared with folding chairs, blankets, Thermoses of hot cocoa or coffee. Behind them, filling the sidewalks, were the latecomers. The smaller children were in front, peeping out between the heads and shoulders of the seated parade-watchers. The parents were in back.

As I headed up the east side of the street. I heard what sounded like dozens of snare drums and bass drums in the distance, followed by the blast of trumpets and horns, tubas and trombones. The parade had started and was working its way toward where I was standing. I wove my way through the crowd, searching for a bright pink hat. Stay on the east side of the street, Nick had said, and the mystery person will find you. But there were thousands of people on the sidewalk. They wore hats, mitts, scarves, and jackets of every conceivable color.

The first band marched into sight, blaring festive music. A dozen or so clowns fanned out ahead of it, running up to kids at the front of the crowd and handing out miniature candy canes. I kept moving, twisting this way and that, scanning the crowd. If Nick was here, he would have staked out a place and would probably stay put until he was relieved of the money. He would have to. There was no way he could move easily through this crowd on crutches. Still, trying to find him was like trying to find one teeny light on a giant Christmas tree.

Then I spotted it—a flash of bright pink.

Spotted it and lost it. The crowd closed in around me as I waded toward where I thought I'd seen the hat. I glimpsed it again, for a split second, and then, like a firefly on a July night, it vanished. I pressed forward, scanning heads and—yes!—there was Nick, looking both serious and silly as he peered around in the bright pink hat. He was standing at the outer edge of the crowd, off the sidewalk and on the lawn in front of a hospital. People swirled around him, some trying to squeeze into the front ranks of the parade watchers, others moving to circumvent the festivities by cutting across the hospital property. Except for the hat, Nick was dressed completely in black. He leaned heavily on his crutches. The paper bookstore bag with the Christmas tree sticker dangled from one hand. His face was pale, despite the chill in the air, and I guessed he must be in pain.

I opened my mouth to call to him but then decided against it. I pushed through the throng until I finally reached him. When I touched his shoulder, he jumped and twisted around.

“Robyn.” He did not look pleased to see me. “What are you doing here?”

“You asked me to be here, remember?” I said.

“I changed my mind. I can handle this myself.”

“What about your ankle? Doesn't it hurt?”