Seconds Away (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

An hour later
I sat in my backyard—or really, my uncle Myron’s backyard—and filled in Ema. As always, Ema was dressed entirely in a shade of black that matched her hair. She wore black eye makeup. There was a silver skull-and-crossbones ring on her middle finger and more earrings than I could count.

Ema’s natural disposition leaned toward the sullen side, but right now she stared at me as though I had suddenly sprouted a third arm.

“You just left?” Ema said.

“What was I supposed to do?” I countered. “Beat the information out of an old woman?”

“I don’t know. But how could you just leave?”

“She went upstairs. What was I going to do, follow her? Suppose—I don’t know—suppose she started undressing or something.”

“Ugh,” Ema said, “that’s just gross.”

“See?”

Ema wasn’t even fifteen but she sported a fair amount of tattoos. She was maybe five-four and what most in our society would call on the large side. When we met only a few weeks ago, she sat by herself for lunch at the outcast table. She claimed to prefer it.

Ema stared at the old black-and-white photograph. “Mickey?”

“Yeah?”

“You can’t really believe that this is the same guy.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but . . .” I stopped.

Ema had this way about her. Her outward shell, the one she showed pretty much the entire world, was defensive and surly. Ema was not what one would call conventionally beautiful, but when she looked at me like she did now with her big brown eyes, with all the concentration and caring emanating from her face, there was something almost celestial about her.

“Go on,” she said.

“The accident,” I began. “It was the worst moment of my life, times ten. My father . . .” The memories flooded me. I was an only child. The three of us lived overseas for pretty much my entire life, blissfully trekking through the most obscure corners of the world. I thought that we were carefree nomads, international bohemians who worked for various charities. I didn’t realize how much more there was to it.

“It’s okay,” Ema said.

But it was hard to reveal more. When you travel that much, you don’t get to make many (or really, any) friends. It was one of the reasons I wanted so much to settle down, why my father ultimately quit his job and moved us to California and signed me up for a real school and, well, died. So you see, what happened after we returned to the United States—my father’s death, my mother’s downward spiral—was my fault. No matter how you wanted to slice it, it was on me.

“If you don’t want to tell me . . . ,” Ema began.

“No, I do.”

Again she gave me the big eyes, the ones that seemed so focused, so understanding and kind.

“The accident,” I said. “It took away everything. It killed my dad. It shattered my mom.”

I didn’t bother going into what it had done to me—how I knew that I would never get over it. That wasn’t relevant here. I was trying to figure out how to transition this back to the paramedic and the man in the photograph.

My words came slower now. “When you experience something like that, when something happens so suddenly and destroys everything in your life . . . you remember everything about it. Every single detail. Does that make sense?”

“Sure.”

“So that paramedic? He was the first one to let me know that my dad was gone. You don’t forget what that guy looks like. You just don’t.”

We sat there another minute in silence. I looked at the basketball rim. Uncle Myron had gotten a new one when he knew that I’d be living with him. We both found solace in it, in basketball, in the slow dribble, in the fadeaway jumper, in the way the ball goes swish through the hoop. Basketball is the one thing I have in common with the uncle I’m forced to live with and I can’t quite forgive.

I can’t forgive him. And, I guess, I can’t forgive me either.

Maybe that was something else Uncle Myron and I had in common.

“Don’t bite my head off, okay?” Ema said.

“Okay.”

“I understand everything you said. You know that. And, well, this past week has been absolutely loony. I know that too. But can we just look at this rationally for a second?”

“No,” I said.

“Huh?”

“I know how this looks rationally. It looks like I should be locked in a padded room.”

Ema smiled. “Well, yeah, there’s that. But just so we cover all the bases, let’s go through it step by step, okay? Just to make sure I have this straight.”

I nodded grudgingly.

“One”—she held up a finger with pinot noir nail polish—“you’re walking to school last week and you go past the creepy Bat Lady’s house and even though you don’t know her, have never seen her before, she tells you that your father is alive.”

“Right.”

“Spooky, right? I mean, how did she even know who you were or that your father was killed—and what would possess her to say such a thing?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“Neither do I. So let’s move to two.” Ema held up a second finger, the one with the skull ring and canary-yellow polish. “A week later, after we go through hell and back, Bat Lady tells you that her real name is Lizzy Sobek, the famous Holocaust heroine no one has seen since the end of World War Two. Then she hands you a photograph of this old Nazi who killed her father. And you think it’s the same guy who took your dad away on a stretcher.” Ema spread her hands. “That about sum it up?”

“Pretty much.”

“Okay, good, we’re getting somewhere now.”

“We are?”

She shushed me with a hand gesture. “Let’s skip for a moment the fact that somehow the guy hasn’t aged a day in seventy years.”

“Okay.”

“Here’s the other thing: You always describe the paramedic as having sandy-blond hair and green eyes.”

“Right.”

“That’s what you remember best about him, right? The green eyes. I think you said they had yellow circles around the pupils or something.”

“Right, so?”

“But, Mickey?” Ema tilted her head. Her voice was gentler now. “This photograph is in black and white.”

I said nothing.

“You can’t see any colors. How could you tell, for example, that his eyes are green? You can’t, can you?”

“I guess not,” I heard myself say.

“So let’s put it plainly,” Ema said. “What scenario is more likely? That the Butcher of Lodz has a passing resemblance to a paramedic and you imagined more—or that a ninety-year-old Nazi is now a young paramedic working in California?”

She had a point, of course. I knew that I wasn’t thinking straight. In the past week I’d been beaten up and nearly killed. I had seen a man shot in the head, and I was forced to stand by helplessly while Ema had come within seconds of having her throat slashed.

And that wasn’t even mentioning the really stunning part.

Ema stood, brushed herself off, and started to walk away. “Time for me to go.”

“Where?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She did this all the time—just disappeared like this. “Let me walk you,” I said.

Ema put her hands on her hips and frowned at me.

“It’s getting late. It might not be safe.”

“You’re kidding me, right? What am I, four years old?”

But that wasn’t it. For some reason, Ema wouldn’t show me where she lived. She always just vanished into the woods. We had quickly become close, yes, maybe the closest friends either of us had ever had, but we both still had our secrets.

Ema stopped when she reached the end of the yard. “Mickey?”

“What?”

“About the photograph.”

“Yes?”

She took her time before she said, “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

I waited for her to say more. She didn’t.

“So what then?” I asked. “If I’m not crazy, what am I? Falsely hopeful?”

Ema considered that. “Probably. But there is another side to this whole thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Maybe I’m crazy too,” she said, “but I believe you.”

I stood and walked toward her. I’m six-four, so I towered over her. We made, I’m sure, an odd pair.

She looked up at me and said, “I don’t know how or why, and, yeah, I know all the arguments against it. But I believe you.”

I was so grateful, I wanted to cry.

“The question is, what are we going to do about it?” Ema asked.

I arched an eyebrow. “We?”

“Sure.”

“Not this time, Ema. I’ve put you in enough danger.”

She frowned again. “Could you be more patronizing?”

“I have to handle this on my own.”

“No, Mickey, you don’t. Whatever this is, whatever is going on here with you and the Bat Lady, I’m part of it.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I settled for, “Let’s sleep on it and talk in the morning, okay?”

She turned and started back through the yard. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“This all started with a crazy old lady telling you that your father was still alive. But now, well, I’m not so sure she’s crazy.”

Ema disappeared into the night. I picked up the basketball, lost in the—and, yes, I know how this will sound—Zen-like quality of shooting. After all that had happened, I longed for a little peace and quiet.

But I wouldn’t get it.

I thought that it was bad then, but soon I would learn just how bad it could get.

CHAPTER 3

I was just about
to take a jump shot when I heard Uncle Myron’s car pull up.

Myron Bolitar was something of a sports legend in this town. He held every basketball scoring record, won two NCAA Final Four titles in college, and was drafted in the first round by the Boston Celtics. A sudden knee injury ended his NBA career before it really began.

I’d always heard my dad—Myron’s younger brother—talk about how devastating that had been for my uncle. My dad had loved and hero-worshipped Myron—until my mother became pregnant with me. To put it mildly, Myron did not approve of my mother. He let that fact be known with, I guess, very colorful language. The two brothers fought over it, leading to Myron actually punching my father in the face.

They never saw or spoke to each other again.

Now, of course, it was too late.

I know Myron feels bad about this. I know that it breaks his heart and that he wants to make amends through me. What he doesn’t get is, it isn’t my place to forgive him. In my eyes, he was the guy who pushed my parents down a road that would eventually lead to Dad’s death and Mom’s drug addiction.

“Hey,” Myron said.

“Hey.”

“Did you get something to eat?” he asked me.

I nodded and took a shot. Myron grabbed the rebound and threw the ball back to me. The basketball court meant a lot to both of us. We both got that. It was neutral territory, a no-fight zone, our own small land of truce. I took another shot and winced. Myron spotted it.

“Tryouts are in two weeks, right?” he asked.

He was talking about the high school basketball team. My hope, I confess, was that I’d break those old records of his.

I shook my head. “They were moved up.”

“So when are they?”

“Monday.”

“Whoa, soon. Are you excited?”

I was, of course. Very. But I just shrugged and took another shot.

“You’re only a sophomore,” Myron said. “They don’t take many sophomores on the varsity.”

“You started as a sophomore, didn’t you?”

“Touché.” Myron threw me another pass and changed the subject. “Still sore from last night?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Anything more than that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m wondering whether we should take you to a doctor.”

I shook my head. “Just sore.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

I did not.

“Seems to me you put yourself and others in danger,” Uncle Myron said.

I was debating on how to tap-dance around the truth. Myron knew some of it. The police knew some of it. But I couldn’t tell them all of it. They’d probably never believe it anyway. Heck, I didn’t believe it.

“There are always consequences to being a hero, Mickey,” Uncle Myron said in a soft voice. “Even when you’re sure you’re doing the right thing. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

We looked at each other. Myron was about to say something more when his cell phone buzzed. He looked at the caller ID, and something close to shock crossed his face.

“Sorry,” he said to me, “but I need to take this.”

He stepped away, deeper into the yard. He hunched over and started talking.

You put yourself and others in danger . . .

I could take the risks—that would be on me—but what about my friends? What about the “others”? I stepped away in the opposite direction and took out my cell phone.

Four of us had gone into that evil nightclub to rescue Ashley: Ema and I, of course—and then there had been Spoon and Rachel. Spoon, like Ema and me, was an outcast. Rachel was anything but.

I needed to check up on them.

I texted Spoon first and got the following auto-answer. Spoon:
I cannot reply at this time. Due to recent events I am grounded until the age of 34.

And then, because he was Spoon, he added:
Abraham Lincoln’s mother died of milk poisoning at age 34.

I couldn’t help but smile. Spoon had “borrowed” his father’s custodial truck in order to help us. His parents were the most caring and overprotective in our little group, so I’d figured that he’d get in the most trouble. Luckily, Spoon was, if nothing else, resourceful. He’d be okay.

I texted the fourth and final member of the gang—Rachel Caldwell. How to describe Rachel . . . ? I will make it simple: Rachel was, for lack of a better phrase, the hottest girl in school. By definition, I guess, every school has one, and, yes, she was much more than super-attractive, so please don’t label me a sexist pig too quickly. The bravery and resourcefulness she’d demonstrated in that horrible place was mind-boggling.

But still, if I am being totally honest here, her hotness was the first thing to pop into my—and almost everyone in school’s—head.

How Rachel ended up joining forces with the looked-down-upon new kid (me), the self-defined goth-emo “fat girl” (Ema), and the janitor’s nerdy kid (Spoon) was still something of a mystery.

I thought hard about what to text Rachel. I admit it—I got nervous and doofy around her. My palms started to sweat. I know that I should have been mature and above it. Most of the time I am. Or maybe not. Anyway, after long consideration about what exactly I should text, I put my fingers to the keypad and went with this charming opener:
U OK?

As you can see, I’m very smooth with the ladies.

I waited for Rachel’s response. None came. When Uncle Myron finished his phone call, he stumbled toward me in something of a daze.

Borrowing from my clever text to Rachel, I asked, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Myron said.
“Who was that?”

My uncle’s voice was distant. “A close friend I haven’t heard from in a while.”

“What did he want?”

Myron just stared off.

“Hello?” I said.

“He needs a favor. A strange one.” Myron checked his watch. “I have to run out. I should be back in an hour.”

Well, that was weird. My phone buzzed. I checked my caller ID, and when I saw Rachel’s name, my pulse did a little two-step. I slid away from my uncle and opened Rachel’s message. It read:
Can’t talk now. Can I call you later?

I immediately texted back
Sure
and then wondered whether that sounded too anxious or whether I should have waited, oh, eight seconds to make it look like I wasn’t just standing around waiting for her text.

Pathetic, right?

Uncle Myron hurried off to his car. I headed into the kitchen and grabbed a snack. I pictured Rachel at home, texting me. I had only been to Rachel’s house once. Yesterday. It was a big sprawling estate with a gate at the front of the driveway. It also looked empty and like a really lonely place to live.

The local newspaper, the
West Essex Tribune,
was on the kitchen table. The front-page story for the third straight issue involved the big-time actress Angelica Wyatt’s visit to our little town. Rumor had it that not only was Angelica Wyatt filming a movie here but that, per the headline:

LOCAL TEENS TO BE USED AS EXTRAS!

Everyone at Kasselton High was excited about this possibility. The boys in my school, many of whom still had that controversial poster of Angelica Wyatt in a wet bikini on their walls, were particularly thrilled.

I, on the other hand, had more important things to occupy my time.

I pushed the paper to the side and took out the photograph of the Butcher of Lodz. I put it on the table and stared hard at it. Then I closed my eyes, imprinting the picture in my mind like a sunspot. I made myself go back to that California highway, to the accident, to being trapped in the car, to seeing my dying father, to looking into those green eyes with the yellow rings as they snuffed out all hope.

In my mind’s eye, I locked in on the paramedic’s face. Then I tried to superimpose this image in my head onto the one I’d created by staring at that photograph.

It was the same man.

But that was impossible. So maybe the Butcher had a son who looked just like him. Or a grandson. Or maybe I was losing my mind.

I should go see the Bat Lady again. I should demand answers.

But I had to think about how to approach her. I had to think it through and consider every possibility and try to stay logical. Plus there was something else to consider.

There is an old saying, “Nothing is certain, except death and taxes.”

Whoever said that forgot one: homework.

I debated asking Uncle Myron to write an excuse note for me:

Dear Mrs. Friedman:

Mickey’s French Revolution assignment will be tardy because he was rescuing another student, watching a man get shot, getting the stuffing beaten out of him, being grilled by the cops . . . oh, and he saw a photograph of an old Nazi who disguised himself as the California paramedic who told him that his father was dead.

Mickey will turn in the assignment next week.

Nah. I didn’t think that would work. That, and I hate the word
tardy
. How come you only use the word
tardy
when it comes to school? And how come you don’t just say
late
?

Man, I needed sleep.

My bedroom had been, for too many years, Uncle Myron’s bedroom. It was located in the basement and would be considered “retro” if it wasn’t completely lame. There was a vinyl beanbag chair and a lava lamp and even trophies that dated back more than twenty years.

My partner for the French Revolution project was none other than Rachel Caldwell. I hadn’t known Rachel long, but she hit me as one of those girls who always handed her assignments in on time. You know the type. She comes in on test day and swears she’s going to fail and then she finishes the test in record time, hands in her perfect paper, and spends the rest of the class putting reinforcements in her notebook.

No way she’d let me be “tardy” with the assignment.

Fifteen minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was Rachel.

I hit the appropriate button and said, “Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Yep. Pretty dang smooth all the way around. I decided to go now with what was fast becoming my patented icebreaker: “You okay?”

“I guess,” she said.

Rachel sounded strangely distracted.

“Pretty wild night,” I said.

“Mickey?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think . . . ?”

“What?”

“I don’t know, Mickey. Is it over? It doesn’t feel like it is.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I had felt the same thing—like the bad was just beginning. I wanted to offer words of comfort, but I didn’t want to lie.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, it should be.”

Silence.

I said, “We have that French Revolution project due tomorrow.”

“Right.”

More silence. I pictured her sitting alone in that empty mansion. I didn’t like it.

“Should we get to it?” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Should we try to do the assignment? I know it’s late but I can come over or we can do it over the phone or . . .”

Then, through the earpiece, I heard a noise in the background.

Rachel may have gasped. I wasn’t sure. There was more noise.

“Rachel?” I said.

“I have to go, Mickey.”

“What?”

“I can’t talk now.” Her voice took on a strange, firm tone. “I have to take care of something.”

“What?”

“I’ll see you at school in the morning.” She hung up.

But Rachel was wrong. I wouldn’t see her in the morning, because by then everything would be different.