MYRON GOT ME OUT.
I sat in a holding cell. The cop who unlocked the barred door looked sheepish, as if he couldn’t believe Chief Taylor had actually stuck me in there. Myron approached as though he wanted to hug me, but my body language must have warned him that it’d be the wrong move. He gave my shoulder a quick pat instead.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
Myron nodded. On our way out, Chief Taylor blocked our path. Myron sort of pushed me behind him, taking the lead. He and Taylor stared each other down for what seemed like an eternity. I remembered my last run-in with the police chief, at the Kents’ house: “Smart mouth. Just like your uncle.”
“Now that your nephew has an adult with him,” Taylor finally said, “I’d like to ask him some questions.”
“About what?” Myron asked.
I could not only see the dislike between the two men—I could actually feel it.
“There was a break-in at the Kent household. Your nephew was found in the immediate area of that crime. We want to ask him about that—as well as about tonight’s attempted break-in.”
“Break-in,” Myron repeated.
“Yes.”
“Where he knocked on a door and never even entered the residence.”
“I said attempted break-in. He was also trespassing.”
“No,” Myron said, “he wasn’t. He was knocking on a door.”
“Don’t tell me the law.”
Myron just shook his head and started for the door. Taylor got in his way again. “Where are you going? I thought I made it clear I wanted to ask your nephew some questions.”
“He isn’t talking to you.”
“Says who?”
“Says his attorney.”
Chief Taylor looked at Myron as if he were something that had just dropped out of a dog’s behind. “Oh, that’s right. After you blew your basketball career, you became a scumsucking lawyer.”
Myron just grinned at him. “We’ll be on our way.”
“That’s the way you’re going to play? Then I’m going to have to charge him. Maybe hold him overnight.”
Myron looked behind him. Two other cops stood in the doorway. They had their eyes downcast. This wasn’t the way they wanted to play this either.
“Go ahead,” Myron said. “You’ll get laughed out of court.”
“You really want to go that route?” Taylor asked.
No, I thought.
“What my nephew did isn’t a crime.” Myron moved a little closer to Chief Taylor. “You know what was a crime, though, Eddie?”
Chief Taylor—I guess his first name was Eddie—said nothing.
“That time you egged my house junior year,” Myron said. “Remember that, Eddie? The cops picked you up, but they didn’t haul your dumb ass into the station like this. They drove you home. Or that time Chief Davis caught you breaking beer bottles against the school. Big tough guy, breaking bottles, until Davis drove up. Remember how you cried like a baby—”
“Shut up!”
“—when he threatened to put you in the squad car?” Myron turned to me. “Mickey, did you cry?”
I shook my head.
“Well, Chief Taylor did. Like a three-year-old. Ah yes, I remember it like it was yesterday. You cried—”
Taylor was the red of a sports car. “Shut up!”
The other two cops were snickering.
“But even then Chief Davis just drove you home,” Myron went on. “He didn’t cuff you. He didn’t drag you in because he had an old beef with your uncle, which, really, is such a cowardly thing to do.”
Taylor caught his breath. “You think that’s what this is?”
Myron stepped closer. “I know that’s what this is.”
“Take a step back, Myron.”
“Or?”
“Do you want to make an enemy of the chief of police?”
“It seems,” Myron said, maneuvering me around Taylor and starting us for the exit, “I already have.”
We headed to the parking lot without speaking. When we got into the car, Myron said, “Did you do anything against the law?”
“No.”
“You asked me about Bat Lady’s house. Then you paid her a late-night visit.”
I didn’t reply.
“Anything you want to tell me about?” Myron asked.
I thought about it. “No, not right now.”
Myron nodded. “Okay then.”
That was all. He didn’t ask more questions. He started up the car, and we drove home in silence that was, for a change, somewhat comfortable.
That night, when the dream starts, my father is still alive.
He has a basketball in his hand and he’s smiling at me.
“Hey, Mickey.”
“Dad?”
He nods.
I feel such happiness, such hope. I am nearly crying with joy. I rush over to him, but suddenly he isn’t there anymore. He is behind me. I run after him again, and again he vanishes. I start to get it now. I start to get that this might be a dream and when I wake up, my father will be dead again. Panic takes hold. I move faster. I jump closer to him, and I manage to get my arms around him. I embrace him with everything I have, and for a moment, he feels so real that I think, no, wait, this is reality! He is alive! He never died!
But even as I think that, I can start to feel my grip slipping. Behind him, I see that paramedic with the sandy hair and the green eyes. He is giving me that same heavy look. I yell, “No,” and hug my dad harder, dig my face right into his chest. I start to cry onto his favorite blue shirt. But my dad is fading away now. His smile is gone.
“No!” I shout again.
I close my eyes and hold on tighter, but it doesn’t do any good. It’s like trying to hold on to smoke. The dream is ending. I can see consciousness making its way in.
“Please don’t leave me,” I say out loud.
I woke up in Myron’s basement, sweating and panting. I put my hand to my face and could still feel the tears there. I swallowed hard and got out of bed.
I took a shower and headed to school. Rachel and I worked on our project some more during Mrs. Friedman’s class. At one point, Rachel asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“That was like your fifth yawn.”
“Sorry.”
“A girl could get a complex,” she said.
“It’s not the company,” I said. “Just a bad night’s sleep.”
She looked at me with those big blue eyes. Her skin was flawless. I wanted to reach out and touch her face. “Can I ask you something personal?” she asked.
I gave her a half nod.
“Why do you live with your uncle?”
“You mean, why don’t I live with my parents?”
“Yes.”
I kept my eyes on the desk, on a smug picture of Robespierre from early 1794. I wonder if the smug Robespierre had any inkling what the next few months would bring. “My mother is in rehab,” I said. “My father is dead.”
“Oh,” she said, her hand coming up to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude or . . .”
Her voice just sort of faded away. I lifted my head and managed a smile.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Is that what you dreamed about? Your mom and dad?”
“My dad,” I said, surprising myself.
“Can I ask how he died?”
“A car crash.”
“Is that what you dreamed about?”
Enough, I thought. But then I said, “I was there.”
“At the car crash?”
“Yes.”
“You were in the car?”
I nodded.
“Were you hurt?”
I had broken ribs and spent three weeks in the hospital. But that pain was nothing compared to the vision of watching my father die. “A little,” I said.
“What happened?”
I could still see it. The two of us in the car, laughing, the radio on, the sudden jar of the crash, the snap of the head, the blood, the sirens. I woke up trapped, unable to move. I could see the paramedic with the sandy blond hair working on my too-still father. I was trapped in the seat next to him, the fireman working to free me with the Jaws of Life, and then the sandy-haired paramedic looked up at me; and I remember his green eyes with the yellow circle around the pupil—and the eyes seemed to say that nothing would ever be the same.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Rachel said with the most gentle voice. “We’re history partners—it doesn’t mean you have to bare your soul. Okay?”
I nodded gratefully as the bell rang, chasing away that image of the sandy-haired paramedic with the green eyes. At lunch, Ema and I filled Spoon in on our late-night visit to Bat Lady’s house. He looked hurt.
“You didn’t invite me?”
“It was like two in the morning,” I said. “We figured you’d be asleep.”
“Me? I’m an up-all-night party animal.”
“Right,” Ema said. “By the way, do your jammies have feetsies?”
Spoon frowned. “Tell me that epitaph again.”
Ema handed Spoon her phone. She had snapped a picture of it with her cell phone camera:
LET US LABOR TO MAKE THE HEART GROW LARGER,
AS WE BECOME OLDER,
AS SPREADING OAK GIVES MORE SHELTER.
AS WE BECOME OLDER,
AS SPREADING OAK GIVES MORE SHELTER.
Two minutes later, Spoon said, “It’s a quote from Richard Jefferies, a nineteenth-century English nature writer noted for his depiction of English rural life in essays, books of natural history, and novels.”
We looked at him.
“What? I just Googled the quote and read his bio on Wikipedia. There is nothing on that childhood lost for children quote, so I don’t know what that’s about, but I can do more research later.”
“Good idea,” I said.
“Why don’t we all meet after school and go to the library?” Ema suggested. “We can see what we can find out about Bat Lady from the town archives too.”
“I can’t today,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I have a basketball game,” I said.
I didn’t want to go into detail. I had a plan. I would go down on the bus to Newark like I did most days. I might even play a little with Tyrell and the gang. Then, with Ema and Spoon safe here in town, I would visit Antoine LeMaire at the address near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge.
So that was what I did. As soon as school ended, I walked to the bus stop on Northfield Avenue and hopped on the number 164. First, I took out my cell phone. I had one picture of Ashley, dressed in her prim sweater, her smile shy. I made it my default screen so if I needed to show it to anyone, I would have it at the ready.
There was a light mist of rain, so we had fewer guys show up for pickup basketball. Tyrell wasn’t there. One of the other guys told me that he was studying for some big test at school. We started playing, but the rain kicked in, so we called it off. I changed back into my school clothes, and using the directions I’d gotten online, I started to walk over to Antoine LeMaire’s address.
The rain was coming down hard now. I didn’t mind. I like rain. I was born in a small village in the Chiang Mai province in northern Thailand. My parents were helping out one of the hill tribes called the Lisu. The shaman—the sorcerer, medicine man, one who acts as a medium between the visible world and the spirit world—gave my father a list of things I must do during my lifetime. One was to “dance naked in the rain.” I don’t know why I’ve always liked that one, but I do. I’ve done it, though not recently, but ever since I was old enough to understand the list, I have always had a funny appreciation for the rain.
When I arrived at the address, I was surprised to see that it wasn’t a residence near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge—it was the Plan B Go-Go Lounge. I looked for an apartment on the top, but there was only the lounge entrance. A huge black man stood in front of it. There was a frayed velvet rope and a big pink-once-red awning. On the awning was a silhouette of a voluptuous woman. The door was blacked-out glass with faded lettering. A sign read: 50 LIVE BEAUTIFUL GO-GO SHOWGIRLS—AND TWO UGLY DEAD ONES.
Funny.
The huge man—a bouncer—frowned at me and pointed to another weathered sign: NO ONE UNDER 21 PERMITTED.
I was going to ask the bouncer whether he knew Antoine LeMaire, but that seemed like the wrong move. I took out my wallet and produced the fake Robert Johnson ID saying I was twenty-one. He looked at it, looked at me, knew it was probably a fake, didn’t much care. It was five P.M., but business was brisk. Men entered and left in drifts and waves. There were all kinds—jeans and flannel shirts, sneakers and work boots, suits and ties and shined shoes. Some fist-bumped the bouncer as they came and went.
“Thirty-dollar cover charge,” the bouncer said to me.
Wow. “Thirty dollars just to enter?”
The big man nodded. “Includes buffet dinner. Tonight is Tex-Mex.”
I made a face at the thought. He let me through. I pushed open the door and was greeted by darkness. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. A bikini-clad woman/girl who looked about my age stood by a cash register. I gave her thirty dollars. She handed me a plate, barely looking up at me. “For the buffet,” she said by way of explanation. “That way.” She pointed to the curtain on the right.
I looked at the plate. It was white with the same voluptuous silhouette as on the awning, plus the rather obvious slogan: Plan B—Where You Go When Plan A Doesn’t Work Out.
My mouth felt dry. My step slowed. I will make a confession to you now. I was nervous, but I was also, well, I was curious. I had never been in a place like this. I realize I should be above that and be mature about it and all that, but a part of me felt pretty naughty and a part of me kind of liked that.
The music was loud with a driving beat. The first thing I passed was an ATM that let you get your cash in fives, tens, or twenties. This, I could see, was to tip the dancers. Men hung at a stage-bar, mostly drinking beer, while the women danced in stiletto heels so high they doubled as stilts. I tried not to stare. Some of the dancers were indeed beautiful. Some were not. I watched them work the men for tips. A sign read: YOUR STAY HERE IS TOUCH AND GO—TOUCH AND YOU GO. Despite that, the men jammed the paper money into G-strings with little hesitation.
Behind me was the buffet. I took a quick glance. The chips were Doritos. The ground beef was marinating in so much lard it looked as if it were encased in Jell-O. The whole place, even in the dark, felt more than looked dirty. I wasn’t a germaphobe, but even without the warning, I didn’t want to “touch” anything.
So now what?
I found an empty booth in a dark corner. Seconds after I sat down, two women approached me. The one with the plunging neckline and fire-engine-red dye job slid next to me. It was hard to tell her age. Could be a hard twenty-year-old or an okay thirty or a good forty. I bet on the youngest. The other woman was a waitress.
The fire-engine redhead who sat down smiled at me. She tried her best to make the smile real, but she couldn’t hide the fact that it was an act, that it was like someone had just painted it on her face. None of it reached her wary eyes. It was a bright, wide smile and yet one of the saddest I had ever seen.
“I’m Candy,” she said to me.
“I’m M—uh, Bob,” I said. “I’m Bob.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. Bob.”
“You’re adorable.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Even when I’m nervous, even in a place like this, I still know how to deliver the smooth lines.
Candy leaned forward a little, making sure to offer a peek. “Buy me a drink?”
I didn’t quite get it, so I said, “Huh? I mean, I guess.”
“This your first time here?”
“Yes,” I said. “I just turned twenty-one.”
“That’s sweet. See, it’s customary to buy a drink for yourself and one for me. We could just split a bottle of champagne.”
“How much would that cost?”
The smile flickered when I asked that.
The waitress said, “Three hundred dollars plus tip.”
I was in a booth, which was good—if I was in a chair, I would have fallen off it.
“Um, how about if we both have Diet Cokes?” I asked. “How much is that?”
Now the smile was all the way gone. Clearly I was no longer adorable.
“Twenty dollars plus tip.”
That would pretty much clear me out, but I nodded. The waitress left me alone with Candy. She was studying me now. Then she asked, “Why are you here?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you had really just turned twenty-one, you’d be here with friends. You don’t look like you really want to be here. So what’s your deal?”
So much for working undercover, but maybe this was better anyway. “I’m looking for someone,” I said.
“Aren’t we all?” Candy replied.
“What?”
She shook her head. “Who you looking for, honey?”
“A man named Antoine LeMaire.”
The color drained from her face.
“You know him?”
A look of pure terror came to her. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. She pulled away fast and hard, and I remembered the Touch and Go sign. She hurried away. I sat there, not sure what to do. Unfortunately my mind was made up for me. The big bouncer from the entrance was hustling his way over to me. I took out my cell phone, prepared to call someone, anyone, so I’d have a witness, but I wasn’t getting service. Terrific.
The big bouncer leaned over me like a lunar eclipse. “Let me see your ID again.”
I dug into my pocket and handed it to him.
“You don’t look twenty-one,” he said.
“That’s because it’s dark in here. Outside, in the good light, you let me in, so I must have.”
His whole being seemed to frown at me. “What are you here for?”
“A good time?” I tried.
“Come with me,” he said.
There wasn’t much point in arguing. Two other bruisers were lined up a few feet behind him and even on my best day, I couldn’t take out all three. Or even one probably. So I stood on shaky legs and headed toward the exit. My visit had failed—or had it? Clearly Antoine LeMaire was around here. Clearly his name struck a chord. So now I could go home and regroup . . .
A giant hand fell on my shoulder as I reached the exit.
“Not so fast,” the bouncer said. “This way.”
Uh-oh.
Keeping his hand on my shoulder, he steered me down a long corridor. The two other bouncers followed us. I didn’t like that. There were posters of “showgirls” on the walls. We passed the bathrooms and two more doors and made a left. There was another door at the end of the corridor. We stopped in front of it.
I didn’t like this.
“I’d like to leave,” I said.
The bouncer didn’t reply. He used a key and unlocked the door. He pushed me in and closed the door behind us. We were in an office of some kind. There was a desk and more photographs of girls on the wall.
“I’d like to leave,” I said again.
“Maybe later,” the bouncer said.
Maybe?
A door behind the desk opened, and a short, wiry man entered. His short-sleeved dress shirt was shiny and unbuttoned down to the navel, revealing a host of gold chains and, uh, bling. His arms were knotted, ropy muscle. Have you ever seen someone who gave you the chills just by entering a room? This guy had that. Even the big bouncer, who had to be a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than the short guy, took half a step back. A hush fell over us.
The short, wiry man had the narrow face of a ferret and what I can only describe as psycho eyes. I know that you are not supposed to judge people by their looks, but a blind man would be able to see that this guy was serious bad news.
“Hello there,” he said to me. “My name is Buddy Ray. What’s yours?” He had a faint lisp.
I swallowed. “Robert Johnson.”
Buddy Ray’s smile would make small children flee to their mamas. “Nice to meet you, Robert.”
Buddy Ray—I didn’t know if that was a double first name or a first and last name—looked me over as though I were a bite-size snack. Something was off with this guy—you could just see it. He kept licking his lips. I risked a glance back at the big bouncer. Even he looked jittery in Buddy Ray’s presence.
As Buddy Ray approached, a pungent stench of cheap cologne failing to mask foul body odor wafted off him, the foul smell taking the lead like a Doberman he was walking. Buddy Ray stopped directly in front of me, maybe six inches away. I held my breath and stood my ground. I, too, had a foot on him. The bouncer took another step backward.
Buddy Ray craned his neck up at me and renewed the smile. Then, without warning, he punched me hard and deep in the stomach. I doubled over, the air whooshing out of me. I fell to my knees, gasping for air, but none would come. It felt as though a giant hand were holding my face underwater. I couldn’t breathe. My entire body started craving oxygen, just one breath, but I couldn’t get it. I dropped all the way to the floor, curled up in a fetal position.
Buddy Ray stood over me. The psycho eyes had lit up like something in a video game. His voice, when he spoke, was soft. “Tell me what you know about Antoine LeMaire.”
I gulped but still no air would come. My lungs ached.
Buddy Ray kicked me in the ribs with the toe of his cowboy boot.
I rolled away, the pain from the kick barely registering because I still couldn’t draw air. That was all I could think about. Breathing. Every cell in my body yearned for oxygen. I just needed time to gather one breath.
Buddy Ray turned to his big bouncer. “Pick him up, Derrick.”
“He’s just a kid, Buddy Ray.”
“Pick him up.”
Air. I finally managed to gulp down a few breaths. Derrick’s big hands bunched up my shirt near the shoulders. He lifted me as if I were a light load of laundry.
“Pin his arms back,” Buddy Ray said.
I could tell Derrick didn’t like it, but he did as he was told. He laced his massive arms through mine and pulled back so that my stomach and chest were totally exposed. He tightened his grip, locking me in place. I could feel the tendons ripping across my shoulder sockets. Buddy Ray was still licking his lips, enjoying this way too much.
“Please,” I said as soon as I could gather enough air to speak. “I don’t know Antoine LeMaire. I’m looking for him too.”
Buddy Ray studied my face. “Is your name really Robert Johnson?”
I didn’t know how to answer that one.
He reached into my pocket and took out my cell phone. “I bet this will give us your real name and home address.” Another smile. “So Derrick and I can visit you whenever we like.”
I struggled, but that just made Derrick mad. Buddy Ray flicked my cell phone on—and then his face froze. He looked back at me, his face twisted in rage, and then he turned the camera in my direction.
It was the picture of Ashley.
Buddy Ray’s body started quaking. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying to me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Where. Is. She?”
“That’s why I’m here. I’m looking for her.”
“So you’re here for Antoine?”
“I’m here,” I said, “for me.”
Buddy Ray took a few deep breaths, and I didn’t like what I was seeing on his face. He looked at Derrick. “We should take him to the dungeon.”
The dungeon?
Even Derrick looked shell-shocked when he said that. “I don’t know, boss.”
Buddy Ray turned back to me. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” Buddy Ray said to me, again his voice a quiet lisp. “With Derrick holding you in place, I’m going to sock you in the gut again. Harder this time. Then, much as you’re going to want to bend and fall back on the floor, Derrick is going to hold you up. And then, if you don’t talk, we will take you to the dungeon.”
The fear on my face made his grin widen. “Wait,” I said. “I don’t know anything.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But really, I should be sure, right?”
I started to buck, but Derrick held me firm. Buddy Ray took his time, milking the moment. He licked his lips some more and then he took out a pair of brass knuckles.
I shuddered.
Derrick said, “Uh, Buddy Ray?”
“Just hold him.”
Buddy Ray slipped on the brass knuckles and slowly made a fist. He showed it to me, like it was something I might want to study before he unleashed it. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to tighten my stomach muscles, but really, how would that help? Then, with the maniacal grin at its widest, Buddy Ray began to cock back his fist. He was just about to let it go when the door behind him, the one he had come through a minute ago, opened. A bikini-clad dancer entered.
“Buddy Ray?” she said.
“Get out!”
It was now or never.
As I mentioned before, I had been trained in combat. In most martial arts schools, you are taught how to punch or chop or kick, how to grapple or use holds or escape them. But for the most part, a fight is about the early tactics. It is about distraction and camouflage and surprise and timing. The girl opening the door had shifted attention away from me for a brief second.
So I had to strike now.
Derrick the bouncer still had me in a killer grip, but we were nearly the same height. I bent my neck forward, tucking my chin to my chest, and then snapped my head back with all my might. The back of my skull landed on his nose like a bowling ball. I heard a crunching sound, like someone stepping on a dried bird’s nest.
Derrick cried out and let me go. I didn’t bother with a follow-up blow. No need. It was more important that I didn’t stay still. No hesitation. There was an open door where the dancer still stood. Moving with everything I had—moving before Buddy Ray could react or Derrick could recover—I leaped over the desk, snatching my phone away from a still-shocked Buddy Ray, and sprinted toward the open door.
No hesitation.
The dancer was in my way. That meant having to run her over, if I had to. A second lost could be the difference between making it out and getting caught. I didn’t want to hurt her, but there was simply not enough room to get by. Luckily for both of us, she saw me coming and slid to the right.
I dived through the door and into what might be called a dressing room. There were costumes and boas and lots of dancers crowded in front of one mirror. I expected them to shriek or something like that when I broke through, but they barely looked up.
“Stop him!”
It was Buddy Ray.
I kept moving, running across the dressing room, banging through another door, and finding myself . . .
. . . onstage?
The patrons looked surprised to see me onstage. Then again, so did I. One of the men cupped his hands into a flesh megaphone and yelled, “Boo!” The other men joined in. I was about to jump down, but now I saw the other two bouncers rushing toward me. I turned back, but Buddy Ray was there, Derrick following, holding his nose. Blood leaked through his fingers.
Trapped.
Distraction, camouflage, surprise, timing.
I stayed onstage and ran down it, kicking every beer bottle I could. I didn’t have a plan other than to create a distraction to the point of chaos. The dancers onstage screamed. The patrons started jumping back, crashing into one another, pushing and shoving. It wouldn’t take much. You have a room filled with inebriated, frustrated men who were spending too much money on what really, in the end, was a pretty pathetic Plan B. Testosterone flowed like the watered-down drinks.
Fights started breaking out.
I leaped off the stage, hurdling a group of men. I landed on one, rolled off him, kept moving. The sea of humanity behind me provided a wall. Buddy Ray and the bouncers were trying to get through to me. I turned and looked for an exit.
Nothing.
Buddy Ray and the bouncers were getting closer. I was cornered again.
“Psst, this way.”
I spotted the fire-engine-red hair first. It was Candy. She had ducked under a table. I got down on my hands and knees and started crawling toward her.
Someone grabbed my ankle.
I didn’t bother to look. I kicked out with my foot, mulelike, and somehow I pulled away. I crawled faster, following Candy on all fours. She opened a half door, like an escape hatch, and slid through it. Again I followed her. She was already up on the other side. She helped me to my feet.
“This way.”
We were in a blue room with tons of throw pillows on the floor and a small round stage with a pole in the center. I heard a noise behind us and started for the nearest door. Candy put her hand out to stop me.
“Don’t,” she said with a shudder. “That leads to the dungeon. You don’t ever want to go down there.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I had no interest in visiting the dungeon, thank you very much. I signaled for her to lead the way. We hurried to the other side of the room and pushed against a heavy metal fire door.
I was outside!
Candy grabbed my arm. “You don’t work for Antoine, do you?”
“No,” I said. I held up my phone. “I’m trying to find this girl.”
Candy gasped. There was no doubt—she recognized Ashley.
“You know her,” I said.
“Ashley,” Candy said. “She was so special, so smart. She was my only friend here.”
Was?
“Where is she?” I asked.
“She’s gone,” Candy said in the saddest of voices. “Once you get into Antoine’s van, you’re gone forever.”
There was a commotion coming from the other side of the door. Buddy Ray and the bouncers weren’t far away.
“Run!” Candy said.
“Wait. What do you mean, she’s gone?”
“No time.”
“I have to know.”
Candy put her hands on my chest, grabbing my shirt. “Antoine LeMaire got her months ago. The White Death. There’s nothing you can do for Ashley. She’s gone, just like the others. All you can do now is save yourself.”
I shook my head. “She goes to my high school. She was fine last week.”
Candy looked puzzled, but now there was more noise coming closer. “Run!” she shouted, pushing me away as she ran down the alley. “Just run and don’t come back!”
I took off in the other direction, toward the street, running hard and fast.
I didn’t stop until I was back at the bus station, back on the 164 heading home.
