In Too Deep (10 page)

We stood there awkwardly for a moment. Bruno kept grinning at me. Nick kept scowling.

“Well,” I said finally, “I guess we should let you two—”

“Robyn's doing a story on you guys for the newspaper,” Morgan said.

“Yeah?” Bruno said. “I didn't know you were a reporter.”

“I'm more like a gofer. The editor said I could try a story, but he didn't promise to publish it.”

“And you want to do a story about us?”

“About Mr. Wilson and what he's doing. Who knows? Maybe if people get to know more about what goes on out there, they'll calm down a little.”

“Maybe,” Bruno said. “But I doubt it.” He nudged Nick. “Come on. We gotta get going. Larry's waiting for those parts.”

“God, he's cute,” Morgan said after they'd gone inside. She was practically drooling.

Nick came out again a moment later carrying a heavy crate, which he slid into the back of the truck. As he turned to go back in the store, he hissed at me: “A newspaper article?”

“It was my idea,” I said. “It will give me a chance to talk to Mr. Wilson and some of the kids out there. I want to help, Nick.”

“I don't need your help. I want the guys to relax around me so I can find out what happened to Alex. People don't relax when there's a reporter around. Stay away from there, Robyn. I mean it.”

Bruno came out, also carrying a heavy box. “Let's get a move on, Nick. There are a couple more crates in there.”

Nick glowered at me as he pushed past into the store.

“That didn't work out too well,” Morgan said as we made our way to the soccer game. She was right. I felt terrible. The last thing I wanted was for Nick to be mad at me.

“I guess I'll have to tell Mr. Hartford that I changed my mind,” I said. “He probably won't mind. He wasn't keen on the idea in the first place.”

“H

ow's your story coming along, Robyn?” Mr. Hartford asked me the next morning.

“Well, actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” I said. “Maybe you're right. Maybe it isn't such a good idea.”

“Nonsense. It's a terrific idea.”

“But you said—”

“I ran into Larry Wilson last night at a Chamber of Commerce meeting. I told him what you wanted to do. He's all for it.”

“Well, I—”

“I warned him,” he continued. “I said that if we did a story, it would be balanced and objective, which means that we'd talk to his detractors as well as his supporters. He said he'd be glad to cooperate any way he could.”

“Yes, but—”

“The mayor thinks it's a great idea too. So do some of the local storeowners who do business with Larry. It's no secret that a lot of people don't like Larry and his kids, but his business and his group home are important to the towns around here. Take whatever time you need for your article, Robyn. If you need any help or advice, come to me or ask Tom. And give Larry a call to set up an interview. He's expecting to hear from you.” He bustled away to his office. I stared helplessly after him. When I turned to go to my desk, Tom grinned at me.

“Nice work, Scoop,” he said.

I wondered what Nick would say. I wondered if he would be angry with me. I wished he would get in touch so that I could tell him.

I lay awake that night, listening and hoping that Nick would swim across the lake again so that I could talk to him.

He didn't.

  .    .    .

The next morning, Mr. Hartford asked me if I'd set up an interview with Larry Wilson yet. I had no choice. I called, and Mr. Wilson invited me out to his place the next day.

Wilson was waiting for me when I pulled up to his gate that afternoon. He walked me around the compound and took me through the bunkhouse—a long, gleaming building that contained six small but sparkling-clean double rooms, three bathrooms, and a lounge equipped with a TV, a DVD player, and a lot of framed photographs on the wall. The faces in them were all male, all young. “Some of the alumni,” Mr. Wilson said. Some of the guys in the pictures were hard at work and covered in grease; some were fooling around on a dock; one was standing next to Mr. Wilson, holding up a string of fish.

“Pickerel,” Mr. Wilson said. “We cooked them up that night. There's nothing like fish fresh from the water. Even the kids who swore they didn't like fish went back for seconds.”

There was a classroom building equipped with old computer equipment. “Some of the boys are finishing high school online,” Wilson told me. “At first I tried enrolling them in the nearest public school. But there were only ever a couple of the boys who were interested, and they weren't exactly welcomed with open arms. Some teachers were hostile. Some of the local kids picked fights with them—and my kids were the ones who always ended up being punished. It was counterproductive. So I recruited a couple of teachers I used to work with. They come here for a few days every month, help the kids with whatever I can't help them with, and leave them with assignments.”

There was an enormous garden behind the classroom building. Two boys, slick with sweat, were working in it. One was pulling weeds. The other was working the soil with a hoe.

“You name it, we grow it—tomatoes, lettuce, beans, peas, potatoes, corn, carrots, peppers,” Mr. Wilson said. “Most of these kids have never eaten fresh produce regularly. The ones who've spent a lot of time on the street have really bad eating habits. I don't stock junk food. If they want something sweet, they have to bake it themselves. Hot dogs are on the menu a couple of times a year—we have the occasional wiener roast. The rest of the time it's home-cooked. By the time the boys leave they know how to prepare a balanced meal. And that doesn't hurt when it comes to the ladies.” He winked at me.

From there, we got into an old Jeep to tour the property. Back a couple of miles from the house was a huge scrapyard. Bruno, Derek, and two other boys whose names I didn't know were working there.

“I get a lot of salvage—cars that have been abandoned or that are in such bad shape that the owners can't sell them,” Wilson said. “We strip off the parts that have cash value and sell the rest for scrap metal.”

We drove a little farther along a dirt road that ran through increasingly dense woods. “There's a small lake over there,” Wilson said. I saw a shimmer of blue in the distance. “It's not big, but it's deep. The boys go swimming there.” I wondered if that was where Alex Richmond had died. We came to a fork in the road, and Mr. Wilson turned the Jeep around.

“What's that way?” I said, pointing in the direction we hadn't taken.

“Some old sheds, a cookhouse, a bunkhouse—all pretty run-down—from back when this area was being logged. And that way”—he pointed down the other road—“is an abandoned logging road that runs clear up to Wild River Road. It's pretty rough, though, even for the Jeep. There's an old sawmill back there, right near the Wild River. It's abandoned now, but it's not in bad shape. Every now and again I try to interest the county in restoring the place—it'd make a great tourist attraction. You could turn it into a museum of logging. But—” He shrugged. “It's all about money. And plenty of people up here say I only push the idea so I can make money off it, even though I've offered more than once to donate the land to the county.”

“Maybe I'll put that in my article,” I said. “I met the woman who runs the local historical society.”

Mr. Wilson smiled at me. “If even one of the locals was as enthusiastic as you are, maybe these kids would have a chance to really join the community.”

While we drove back to the main compound, I asked him about some of the kids who had lived at his group home.

“What happens to them after they leave?”

“A couple of the boys—the ones who were the oldest when I started—are working as mechanics,” he said. “A couple went back to school—first to finish high school, then to upgrade their skills.”

“So they've all been success stories?”

“I wish I could say yes,” he said. “But that wouldn't be the truth. You can only do your best, Robyn. The first thing these kids have to learn is discipline. You can't be part of a team—I don't care if that team is your family, your co-workers, your friends—if you don't have the discipline to play by the rules. A lot of these kids have spent most of their lives running wild or willfully breaking the rules. I don't let them get away with that up here. If they're going to succeed, they have to be willing to meet me halfway. I interview the kids before I take them in. I try to pick the ones who are most in need of the type of program I'm running and who I think have the best chance to succeed—but I don't always choose correctly.”

“Do you think I could interview some of the guys for my story?”

He glanced at me. “I can't force them to answer your questions. But you're free to ask for volunteers. Just don't be surprised if you don't get too many takers. These kids have had mostly bad experiences with the press, especially up here.”

“But I want to give them a chance to tell their side of the story.”

“Tell you what,” Mr. Wilson said. “Stay for dinner. Let them get to know you a little. Then we'll ask them, see if anyone is interested. How about it?”

It sounded like a plan.

  .    .    .

When I walked into the kitchen with Mr. Wilson, the boys who were preparing supper fell silent. Wilson introduced me and told them to set an extra place at the table. He grabbed a large bell from the top of the fridge, opened the back door, and stepped outside. A few minutes later, boys started filing into the kitchen. They all stared at me. One by one they fell silent. Nick was one of the last ones into the room. He didn't look at all surprised to see me. He must have seen me touring the property with Mr. Wilson.

Wilson stood at one end of the table. “Why don't you sit here, Robyn?” he said, pulling out the chair to the right of where he was standing.

I sat down. Mr. Wilson nodded, and fifteen chairs scraped against the linoleum as the boys all took their seats. Bruno anchored the other end of the table. Nick was seated next to me. He didn't look at me even once. I desperately wished I could explain that I had tried to drop the story. Even if I did tell him, I wondered if he would believe me.

Bowls and platters of food were passed around. Each boy took only a modest portion. Then, as they started to eat, Wilson asked one of them how the garden was coming along. During the course of the meal he engaged each boy in conversation at least once. Things loosened up a little, too. Guys teased each other and made jokes. It was almost as if they had forgotten I was there. Well, maybe not everyone. As the plates from the main course were being cleared away, I felt Nick's hand on my knee. I slid my own hand under the table, and Nick pressed something into it. A note. I slipped it into my pocket.

“Raspberries, Robyn?” Mr. Wilson said. “Eddie picked them this afternoon. Later in the summer we'll have fresh blueberries.”

I accepted eagerly. The berries were juicy and fragrant, and they were topped with a dollop of whipped cream.

When the meal was over Mr. Wilson said, “Before the clean-up crew gets started, Robyn here has a request. She's working on a story about us for the local paper—”

A couple of guys groaned. Someone whispered something to the kid next to him.

“Manners, guys,” Mr. Wilson said, holding up a hand. “I showed Robyn around the place today and answered all of her questions. She wants to do a balanced story on what goes on up here, and she asked me if she could interview some of you. So, what do you say? Volunteers?”

Nobody said a word. I looked around the table. The only person who met my eyes was Bruno, and he shook his head. I turned to Mr. Wilson. He shrugged his regret.

“If any of you change your mind,” he said, “let me know, and I'll tell Robyn.” He excused himself from the table and stood up. “Let me walk you to your car.” On the way he said, “I'm sorry you didn't get more cooperation. But you can't say I didn't warn you. It takes long enough for these kids to trust me and each other ...”

“It's okay. I understand.” I thanked him for his help. When I left the compound, I had to remind myself to drive within the speed limit. But it was hard because Nick's note was burning a hole in my pocket. As soon as I parked at the marina, I dug it out and unfolded it. It said “Supermarket. 10
A.M
. Tomorrow.”

  .    .    .

I spotted the black pickup truck before I made the turn into the grocery-store parking lot the next morning.

“I told you we were going to be late,” I said to Morgan.

“You try rushing when you're on crutches,” she snapped at me. “I didn't even have time for a cup of coffee.” One more reason she was in such a rotten mood. “I don't understand why you're in such a hurry. He's probably just going to yell at you for going out there again.”