Lost Boy (18 page)

“I know.” Ryder shrugged, and noted the horrified facial reaction of the girl behind the reception desk as they approached.
“I'd like to think my father has a little bit of a heart, though.”

“We were two crazy strangers in the midst of a bunch of crackpot autograph hounds. I can't blame him for mashing the gas.”

“I don't think he mashed the gas,” Ryder said.

“How would you know? You were being mashed by me.”

Ryder had to laugh, even though his head still hurt. He rubbed the bump. “Yeah, I was.”

Mr. Starr turned his attention to the girl behind the desk. He had made a reservation online, and with Ryder's help to dig out his credit card, they got checked in, and Ryder wheeled him into their ground-floor room.

“Get unpacked,” Mr. Starr said. “We may be here a while.”

“But the security guard said—”

Mr. Starr waved a claw impatiently. “We aren't going to get a check for two hundred thousand dollars along with a free autograph because we announce that you're his son and your mother needs an operation. Tomorrow is just our first point of contact, our opening sortie if we stay with the military theme. This thing will take a few days . . . at least. You can put your clothes in the top drawer.”

Ryder unpacked them and then Mr. Starr declared that he was hungry, so Ryder retrieved some pulled pork sandwiches from a place next door called the Bullpen Rib House. After they ate, Mr. Starr announced that they were going to the Georgia Aquarium.

“We are?” Ryder said.

“We have time to kill, and when I was a reporter I got in the habit of seeing the sights whenever I had time to kill. Supposedly,
the aquarium here is worth the time and the money. We'll see about that. It's open late, so we're good.”

Ryder maneuvered the wheelchair down the sidewalk, across the street, and onto the bus that arrived five minutes later. They headed straight for the golden dome of the capitol building, then wound their way through the heart of Atlanta to Centennial Park. The aquarium was amazing and Ryder appreciated the ease of everything with Mr. Starr being in a wheelchair. They got to cut every line and see everything up as close as you could get. Ryder almost said something about how good it was that Mr. Starr was in a chair, but didn't, and then wondered if he'd lost his own mind when he stopped looking at fish and saw the stares from all around. Ryder realized that no one would trade places with Mr. Starr, not even the poorest, dirtiest, most desperate person on the street. No one wanted to go through life in a chair, and especially in pain.

When they got back to their hotel room and finally shut the door on the gawking faces of other people, Ryder thought about what Mr. Starr was enduring because of him and his mom. “Thank you, Mr. Starr.”

“I haven't done anything yet.” Mr. Starr sat in his chair, just staring out the window at downtown Atlanta. “Let's hold off until we get the job done.”

“Thank you for even trying. My mom and I, we don't get a lot of help from people. We rely on each other all the time. I don't know what I would have done without you.”

“You certainly can't hang your hopes on that mangy fireman.”

“I like Doyle, Mr. Starr. He helped me a lot too. I'd probably
be in a foster home if it wasn't for him.”

“Well, yes. We'll have to give him a bit of credit. I suppose his heart is generally in the right place, even if his brain is lagging behind.”

Ryder chuckled and shook his head, knowing there wasn't any hope. “Maybe we should call him.”

“Not on my dime.” Mr. Starr's words dripped with disgust.

“Maybe he got permission to use FDNY to help raise money. We should at least check in, Mr. Starr. I want to see if there's any news on my mom.”

Mr. Starr stared for a minute, then cleared his throat. “Here. Get the iPad. Send an email if you must.”

“That'll work.” Ryder tried not to grin as he started up the iPad and sent Doyle an email asking how his mom was doing and for a progress report as well as giving one of his own. He ended the email with the sentence:

Looks like tomorrow will be a very big day.

He was disappointed that they got no reply from Doyle before the time Mr. Starr said it was time to turn off the TV and for them to get some rest.

“Tomorrow,” Mr. Starr said, “
is
a big day, maybe the biggest in your life.”

The next day, the Braves had an afternoon game against the Dodgers with the first pitch set for one o'clock. Ryder and Mr. Starr had breakfast in the dining area just off the hotel lobby, then returned to their room to fuss around with the iPad. They pretended to each other that they needed more information to complete the picture of Thomas Trent's life, but they really had everything necessary, and a lot more to boot. Ryder even found out that Thomas Trent's wife grew up outside of Cleveland, Ohio, as the daughter of a farmer, and got suspended from her high school soccer team for drinking in her senior year.

“Okay,” Mr. Starr said after they unearthed that fact. “We've got more than enough.”

Just as he spoke, a bell dinged on the iPad signaling an incoming email. It was from Doyle and Ryder nearly panicked as he hurried to open it and scan its contents.

“Well?” Mr. Starr asked. “What's the news?”

Ryder shook his head and dipped his chin. “He didn't get it, the FDNY thing. But my mom's okay. Well, no change anyway.”

“That just makes today that much more important.”

“Are you trying to make me nervous?” Ryder tried not to sound annoyed, but the magnitude of meeting his father was overwhelming.

“No. I'm trying to help you focus. Let's get ourselves together.”

Ryder pulled on a sweatshirt and stuffed his baseball and the Sharpie in the big front pocket. They decided that he'd hand Thomas Trent the ball and pen, asking him to sign it in hopes that the sight of his old double-A signature would add credibility to their story.

Ryder's limbs shook as he eased the wheelchair down the sidewalk through the column of trees toward the players' parking lot. It was nine forty-five and the air still had a chill even though the sun was rising fast and warming things up nicely. The clear blue sky promised an exceptional day for baseball and maybe the beginning of a whole new kind of life for Ryder. He couldn't help secretly wishing for that, despite what he told Mr. Starr.

They weren't the first fans to arrive. A small family with heavy Southern accents grinned and nodded at them. They looked like farmers and they were the first people Ryder had seen who didn't look at Mr. Starr with horror, fascination, or disgust. Ryder took it as yet another sign that this was going to be a good day with things going their way. More fans wandered
up who weren't as polite, but at least no one said anything about Mr. Starr. The security guards appeared suddenly from their shack.

“Do you see the ones from yesterday?” Mr. Starr's eyes jumped past the guard who had emerged.

“No,” Ryder said.

One of the security guards was scrawny and weather-worn with scraggly blond hair and a mustache, but the other one was enormous.

“Guy looks like a buffalo.” Mr. Starr spoke low.

Ryder nodded in agreement. The guard had a shaggy-haired head, no neck, and appeared to weigh at least four hundred pounds. The buffalo guard put his hands on the heavy metal sections of temporary fence that had been put in place overnight to keep people from crossing the driveway and rattled them, as if to test their strength. The skinny guard did the same to the sections across the driveway.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Starr said. “Can you help us?”

If either of them heard Mr. Starr, they ignored him and took up their posts at the end of the fences where the driveway met the road.

“Hey!” Mr. Starr shouted. “Hey! I'm talking to
you
!”

The big guard answered Mr. Starr's words with a scowl.

“Yes, you!” Mr. Starr was unfazed. “Where are those meatheads from yesterday? They promised us an autograph from Thomas Trent. The guy with the slicked-back hair and the little black beard? He said we could come inside the gate.”

“I doubt that.” The big guard rumbled like distant thunder. “You all just stay right where you are.” He stood with his arms
folded across his massive chest like he was guarding a bank vault.

“Hey!” Mr. Starr shrieked so loud Ryder winced.

“Maybe we should just ask quietly,” Ryder suggested.

“Squeaky wheel gets the grease. Trust me on that.” Mr. Starr harrumphed. “I am serious! We were promised! Do you know how hard it is for me to be wheeled around? I know I sound like a grouch, but look at me! You'd be a grouch too! Now, you stop ignoring me! We were promised!”

The skinny guard shot a nervous glance at the big one, but the big buffalo showed no emotion, and when he looked their way, he looked right over Mr. Starr, as if he were nothing more than a fire hydrant.

“Fine.” Mr. Starr muttered so low, Ryder didn't know if he intended to be heard. “I'll give them a repeat of yesterday. Let him run me over this time.”

“Mr. Starr,
no
.” Ryder's voice was hushed and urgent. “Please let's just try. He might stop and sign. If not, we can go inside and try the dugout.”

“They lied to us, Ryder. They played us. I can't bear it. Being in this chair gives me an edge and I intend to use it.”

“Like yesterday?” Ryder felt panic rising up inside him. “Please, Mr. Starr. We should be low-key about this. I don't want to start things off bad. I want to make a good impression.”

“He's a pro ballplayer, for God's sake.” Mr. Starr clucked his tongue. “If anyone understands determination, it'll be a pro ballplayer. The squeaky wheel, Ryder. The squeaky wheel wins, even if it's uncomfortable, the squeaky wheel gets the grease. It's human nature. I've seen it over and over again.”

Mr. Starr got hold of his control and backed his chair away from the driveway, nearly running over a little girl with her father.

“Where are you going?” Ryder hurried to keep up, worried that they were losing their spot next to the fence. It was now ten fifteen, and fans were arriving by the dozen, crowding in as the first fancy player's car pulled up and in—a Mercedes convertible.

Mr. Starr kept going, backward up the hill. “They're not going to help us and Thomas Trent isn't stopping for anybody.”

“Are we going to get tickets?”

“No,” Mr. Starr said. “Help me get this chair up the hill so we can get around this infernal fencing.”

Ryder turned the chair and pushed it up the hill. They were approaching the police entrance when the fencing stopped and Mr. Starr said, “Now get this thing down over the curb.”

“Mr. Starr, that's the street.” Ryder looked up and down. Cars streamed past doing thirty miles an hour, at least.

“Do I have to run this thing off the curb myself and crash it?” Mr. Starr's voice had that edge again.

Ryder glanced at the police entrance. No one was watching them. He took hold and backed the chair off the curb. A car heading their way swerved without beeping its horn.

“Mr. Starr!”

“We're fine. They won't hit us. There's plenty of room for them to get by. They're just being difficult.” Mr. Starr was speaking fast. “Go back down about halfway and we'll wait until we see Thomas Trent's Maserati. When we do, you run me down the hill and we set up right in front of the driveway.
He won't be able to go in and we can tell him that they promised us an autograph. You give him the ball, tell him you're his son, and say you have to talk to him after the game.”

“It's just . . .” Ryder winced as another player went rushing past in a Range Rover. “I don't think this is the way to do it. This is so extreme.”

“Yes, it certainly is,” Mr. Starr said. “And so is your mother's condition, isn't it?”

Ryder stopped and clenched his teeth. This was all for his mom. He nodded his head, looking up the hill for a sign of the blue Maserati.

Suddenly, Mr. Starr mumbled, “Uh-oh.”

Ryder turned.

“Well, well,” Mr. Starr said. “Look who decided to show up.”

Marching toward them was the security guard from the day before, the one with slicked-back hair and sunglasses, who'd promised to help.

“My boy,” Mr. Starr said. “Our luck has just taken a turn.”