The Last Reporter (25 page)

But she seemed calmer when Jennifer explained there was no new investigation; they were just following up on the last story.

Jennifer shot off an e-mail to the Bolands with a few questions, basically asking if they had any comment on the state investigation into buying up the Willows.

To take a little of the sting out of it, Jennifer mentioned that they knew the state’s investigation had already been reported in the
New York Times
and they were just following the
Times
story. She asked them to please let her know when they had received her e-mail.

The coeditors didn’t want the Bolands complaining that the
Slash
hadn’t given them a fair chance to comment.

Jennifer was surprised.

That same afternoon, Mrs. Boland’s assistant, Clarence, responded, verifying that he had her questions and would get back to her. Jennifer told Adam it was a pretty normal e-mail — nothing too mean-spirited.

Adam wasn’t nervous about his finals. He was a good test-taker and could usually bluff his way through any black holes in his memory.

He
was
nervous about the meeting they had coming up with Stub Keenan. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain that Stub was going to pound him out.

He and Jennifer had talked about going to Mrs. Quigley first and telling her what their reporting had turned up. That way Mrs. Quigley might stop the election and the
Slash
editors wouldn’t have to break the news to Stub.

Let Mrs. Quigley do the dirty.

Stub probably wouldn’t hit Mrs. Quigley.

If he did, that really wasn’t Adam’s problem.

But the coeditors decided that would not be fair. What if Stub had some reasonable explanation? What if he said he was only giving the iPod downloads to kids who were his closest friends and would have voted for him anyway?

Maybe Stub did have 143 closest friends. Who knew?

They felt that going to the principal before seeing Stub would be like finding him guilty before he could give his side.

So they were going to meet with him — right after school.

Adam intended to be prepared.

In case things got violent.

He wasn’t going to get caught off-guard and smacked like the time he’d been mugged for his shoveling money without fighting back.

If Stub came at him, Adam would be armed and dangerous.

He wasn’t kidding.

Writing the profile on Shadow for Mrs. Stanky was turning into a nightmare. The research paper counted for half their fourth-quarter grade.

Partly he was stalled because he had too much info — he knew Shadow too well. Shadow seemed so complicated, Adam was afraid he couldn’t fit everything in, didn’t know what to leave out, and feared he wouldn’t get it right when he put it down on paper.

Even worse: Could he do the paper without knowing the answer to what might be the biggest question in Shadow’s life?

Was Shadow the baby in the diner trash?

Is that why Shadow was the way he was?

Had Mr. Johnny Stack told Adam the truth?

Adam didn’t think so.

But he didn’t know.

Adam kept trying to get started. He’d gone over his notes and used colored marker to underline the most important ideas and quotes. The problem was, practically every word out of Shadow’s mouth was a great quote; Shadow didn’t say anything the regular way. Picking the best was hard.

In big letters, at the top of the screen he’d written: THEODORE ROBERT “SHADOW” COX.

So far, that was it.

Adam would sit in front of the computer, mull, go upstairs, see what was in the refrigerator, come back down, and stare at the screen. Fifteen minutes later, he’d do it again, looking a little harder in the fridge to see if he’d missed anything.

By the fifth visit, the leftover tuna fish didn’t look that bad.

His problem was not Mrs. Stanky. He was almost sure that Mrs. Stanky would never know if he left out the story of the baby in the trash. No way she had time to check every front page her students looked up at the library.

This was about writing truth. It was what Erik Forrest, the world-famous war correspondent had told Adam: don’t stop until you get to the bottom of things.

Adam was sure he hadn’t hit bottom yet.

How do you write a profile when you can’t answer the most important question in a person’s life?

He thought about going back to the fridge, but he really couldn’t bear looking at that bowl of tuna again.

He slipped into the garage and took out his new bike. His dad had surprised him — it wasn’t his birthday or Christmas or anything.

His dad said they’d waited long enough.

He said Adam wouldn’t be a boy forever.

It was a brand-new, creamy turquoise, Kelly Byrne cruiser with thick whitewall tires and a big, tan-brown seat. Adam loved just looking at it. He loved running his hands over the wide fenders. The curve of the handlebars was perfect. He liked feeling the thickness of the leather seat; no matter how far he rode, his butt never got sore.

When he pedaled hard, the cruiser made a soft whirring noise and he knew no one would ever catch him.

He rode to the back path, turning and heading east along the river, racing past the civic association boathouse where the
Slash
staff had held their secret late-night meeting last fall.

He passed the dock where Jennifer had kicked him really hard for no good reason and the sand dune where the two of them had lain side by side looking at the stars.

That was nice.

As he biked by people, he glanced away. He didn’t want anyone saying hi to him, and pulled his baseball cap low. He wished he could ride forever across this great nation. He wished that everywhere he went, people would know about him, but not know who he was.

The world’s most famous unknown biker.

He kept riding, past where the houses stopped, past the docks and beaches, to where the riverbanks changed from sand dunes and dune grass that rattled in the wind to bright green swampy marsh where seagulls and terns and egrets lived. He could see the tall poles and wooden platforms that the conservation center had built to give the ospreys a place to nest so they’d lay their eggs and wouldn’t become extinct.

He stopped to pick a cattail, ripping apart the fat pod on top and blowing the wispy filaments into the wind.

Then he picked another cattail and, holding it upside down by the fat pod, turned it into a sword.

Biking on, he was unafraid, whipping the cattail through the air and slaying every type of foul beast known to man, including Stub Keenan, demonstrating martial arts moves that Jennifer never even knew existed.

He loved his bike.

And that made him think of his old bike being stolen.

And that made him think of the story the
Slash
had done on bike thieves.

And all at once he knew exactly what he had to do to finish his profile of Shadow, and he raised his cattail high and let out a mighty war whoop.

On Thursday, they had a half day of school. In the afternoon, instead of regular classes, there were extra-help sessions for final exams.

Adam told his parents he planned to go, and technically this was true.

He did
plan
to go. He definitely had the evidence of
planning
to go; it was there in black and white, right on his To-Do list. At breakfast, he just happened to leave the list out on the kitchen table while having a bowl of that cereal with the dried strawberries that brighten up when you pour milk on them.

And his dad just happened to notice the list while Adam was hurrying to get his stuff together for the bike ride to school:

“Adam, you forgot this,” said his dad, who was standing by the front door to say good-bye. “You know, you’re really growing up. I’m very proud of you. We used to have to remind you of everything. Come here, big guy.”

“I have to go, Dad,” Adam said. “I’m biking. It’s getting late.”

“Oh, Adam,” said his dad. “Life is short. There is always time for a hug.” He grabbed Adam and gave him a real big squisher.

“Have a great day,” his father said.

“Right, Dad.”

Adam loved his dad, he really did, and he probably should have just told him the truth. There was nothing terrible. It was just — the truth took so much time, there were so many factual pieces to it, and you really could wear yourself out making sure everything got in there where it was supposed to go. Plus, if you didn’t say it exactly right, if you forgot one little stupid fact, your parents could start yelling and ordering you around, and then you were in actual trouble for no good reason.

He got home around noon.

It was fun being alone in the house so early in the day.

He got the phone number off the calendar in the kitchen. His dad had written it down and circled it in marker; he must have called two dozen times since the bike was stolen.

It took Adam three tries.

Twice, the man was on the other line. Adam left messages with his phone number. But Adam wasn’t going to wait forever. He couldn’t. He had to get this paper done. It was due tomorrow.

The third time, Adam asked if he could just hold until the other call was finished.

He kept watching the clock. It was more than five minutes; he worried that he had been hung up on, but the dial tone did not come on.

“Yeah,” a voice said finally. “Detective Cole.”

Adam explained that he was the one whose bike had been stolen.

“Listen, kid, you got any idea how many —?”

“By the grafitti boy,” said Adam. “My dad talked to you —”

“Oh right, right,” said the detective. “That’s . . . let me see, I got the file . . . Canfield. I was at your house. River Path, right? Your dad and I talk a couple times a week. We’re getting to be great old buds. Very persistent, your father. Like I told him, I really got nada until we go to court. That’s about a month —”

“No,” said Adam. “That’s not why I’m calling. I’ve got a problem and I didn’t really know — actually I thought you might know.”

“Kid, if this ain’t an open case, I really don’t got time. I’m on the clock.”

“It’s just — I remember you said, like, twenty-five years you’re a detective,” said Adam. “And it’s this old case, I think it was pretty famous — I need to know what happened.”

“Hell, kid, you going to ask me about a bike stolen twenty-five years ago?”

“No, no,” said Adam. “It’s not a bike. It’s a baby. Well, it was a baby. A baby left in the trash at a diner . . . Big Frank’s —”

There was quiet on the line, and for an instant, Adam feared they’d been disconnected. “Third precinct,” the detective said at last. “Out Route 197. Big Frank’s All-Nite. That was a huge stink. Lot of heat. Big stories. That’s a long time ago, kid — you probably wasn’t even born.”

“Yeah,” said Adam, “just about.”

“So what’s the deal here?” asked the detective. “You know something?”

“I might,” said Adam.

“You might?” said the detective.

“Uh-huh,” said Adam.

“This isn’t some joke?”

“No,” said Adam.

“Hold on, kid,” said the detective. “Just hold on a second. . . .” The phone went quiet again, then the detective asked, “You mind if I tape this, kid? Our conversation? You don’t care, do you?”

Adam didn’t. But this was weird. Why would anyone want to tape him?

He asked Adam to state his first and last names slowly and spell them, just so they’d have it for the record.

“OK, Canfield, what do you know?”

Adam explained he had this school project to do a profile. And he had to go to the library and read the microfilm, and he’d gone back to that date —

“Look, Canfield, can we get to the point?” said the detective. “You know something about this case?”

“I might,” said Adam.

“You might?” said the detective.

“I might,” said Adam. “I’m not sure.”

“You going to tell me?” asked the detective. “This ain’t a guessing game, Canfield. We ain’t playing twenty questions. I deal in information. Solid information. I think I mentioned I’m on the clock. You got a name for the mother?”

“It might be Cox,” said Adam. “See, there’s this kid —”

“That’s C-o-x?” asked the detective. “OK, good. This is unbelievable. Now we’re getting someplace. So how do you know this?”