Under the Bridge (22 page)

She closed her book. “I want to go with you.”

I shrugged, sitting on the couch. “He’s in with some bad people, Mom. It’d be dangerous right now.”

She studied my face. “There’s nothing I can do, is there?”

I stared at the carpet for a moment. “Not really. But he told me he wants out. He just has to do it the right way.”

“Your father and I put in the missing-person report because we love him. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

She shook her head, looking down. “I don’t care if it’s dangerous. Take me to him, Tate.”

“I can’t, Mom.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t blink an eye. “Tell him I love him.”

“I’m sorry about this. But he does want to make things better.”

She smiled, maybe knowing there was nothing more to
say. “There’s leftover pot roast in the fridge. Would you take out the garbage after you eat?”

I nodded. “Is Dad asleep?”

She shook her head again. “He’s in your room.”

I furrowed my brow. “What’s he doing in there?”

She gave a wan smile. “Getting to know your brother.”

“What?”

She set her hands in her lap and looked at me. “When he got home, he went straight to your room and sat down at Indy’s computer, and he’s been in there since.” She glanced at the clock. “He said he’s not coming out until he’s read everything his son has written.”

“Wow.”

She nodded. “He’s trying, Tate. I know you’re mad at him, but you also know he lives for you two.”

I smiled. “I guess I’ll be sleeping on the couch. He’ll be in there all night.”

She smiled, too. “I guess so.”

“Do you ever think about him?” I said. With the shadows deep and the moon above casting a monochrome silver over everything, I shivered
.

Indy stared at Cutter’s grave. “I try not to.”

I breathed in the night air, then sat on the grass. “He shouldn’t be gone, you know?”

Indy joined me, sitting Indian-style and picking blades of grass. “Why’d you want to meet here?”

I paused, getting my thoughts together. “Cutter didn’t just die.”

He looked at me. “What?”

“That morning, Cutter got in a huge fight with his mom. Bigger than the usual ones where she yelled and threw him out.” I looked at Indy. “She told Cutter he was the reason his dad left them, and that she regretted ever having him in the first place. She said she wished she could take it all back and make him not exist.”

Silence. Indy held his breath.

I went on. “He killed himself, Indy. He did it on purpose.”

Indy shook his head. “Jesus.”

I nodded. “And I was too stupid to see it coming. To help him. I think he told me about the fight because he knew what he was going to do. To sort of give a reason.”

His voice came like a ghost in the deserted cemetery. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m not going to lose you, too. We have more than Cutter ever did, Indy. Dad might be a jerk, but he loves us. Loves you,” I said. I told him that Dad had been in our room reading all his stuff. “He just does things differently.” I looked at him. “You know he loves you, right?”

Indy lowered his head. “How come I always screw up, Tate?”

“It’s not about screwing up. It’s about screwing up and trying to figure out how to fix it.” I paused, and the night seemed to pause with me. “Look at his headstone, Indy.”

Indy raised his head, looking at Cutter’s name etched in the marble. A tear slid down his cheek. “I miss him.”

“Me too. But I’m not going to visit my brother here. Not like this. Not because he gave up.”

A sob racked his chest, and he lowered his head, rocking back and forth, crying. “It would be so much easier if I was gone. Haven’t you ever just felt like … being gone?”

“Yeah. And that’s why we’re here. Cutter wouldn’t want this, Indy. He’d tell you you’re crazy for thinking like that, and he’d help.”

“I can’t get out,” he said, sniffing. “The only thing I can do is stay so high that it makes it hurt less, so I do.” He laughed. “I’m even too chickenshit to kill myself.”

“You can get out. And you will. And you’re not going to kill yourself, either.”

“How can I get out?”

I looked at him, then at Cutter’s headstone. Then I told him.

After school the next day, I skated Under the Bridge alone, my mind full of a weird nothingness … just an almost-overwhelming anxiety that wouldn’t let me focus on anything. Two words kept running through my head, though
.
The bat
.

The Monster was empty, so I headed over and stood on the edge, looking down. Skating a vert is like dancing. It flows. You feel like you’re making something when you carve back and forth, and the more you get into the movements, the more life seems to disappear around you.

You can start out on edge or depressed or pissed off about something, but after a while it takes you and empties your mind of everything but the wheels vibrating below you and the lines you cut across the space, and that’s why I love it. It’s peace.

I’d pulled a seven-twenty once before, but I’d never even tried a nine hundred. Tony Hawk invented the nine hundred
when I was a little kid, and I remembered seeing him do it on TV once. Not many guys who weren’t pro could do it—but, I thought as I skated, nobody was born a pro.

I rolled back and forth on the vert, threw down a backside ollie-to-tail and a couple of easy rock-and-rolls, then ran into a frontside varial revert and hit a varial five-forty smooth as ice on the flip side, my mind getting into my line and my ride getting into my bones.

I knew I couldn’t do a nine hundred, but I’d been working on a gymnast handplant. Although it was tricky to nail down, I was able to do it and come off solid. After that, I crossed over a few times, built up some speed, and put a good four feet of air under my wheels in an airwalk that I’d learned last year. I hit the edge on the other side, flipped my board up, and noticed Detective Connelly sitting on a bench, watching me.

I stood there catching my breath for a minute or two, watching the park clear as kids headed home for dinner or homework or nagging parents. I walked over, sitting next to him. “Like skate parks, huh?”

Detective Connelly smiled. “My son skates. He’s twelve.”

“Cool.”

“You’re good.”

“Thanks. I’m planning on trying to go pro.”

He cleared his throat. “So, you called me. What’s on your mind?”

Darkness surrounded Indy and me as we crouched behind a pile of garbage in the vacant lot behind the old apartment building, and the only thing we’d seen this late was a bum passing through the alley separating us from the building and a cat slinking around hunting rats
.

I looked at Indy in the darkness. “You’re absolutely sure Will’s uncle lives here?”

“Yeah. His uncle Vernon told me the address himself.”

“Zero-two-niner, this is the Sidonator. Do you copy, Flying Turdbuckets? Do you copy?”

I held the two-way radio, wondering what in the heck Sid was talking about. “What?”

Positioned in front of the building, dressed as a homeless guy and sitting next to a shopping cart he’d lifted from a Safeway down the road, he whispered into the radio, “Code. That’s the way they talk during covert operations, man. Get with it.”

I rolled my eyes, not in the mood for Sid’s sarcasm. My stomach roiled as I thought about what we had to do. “Everything is fine. Is his car still out there?”

“That’s affirmative, Turd. Surveillance has shown Bad Evil Dude’s vehicle is still parked at the curb.”

“Okay,” I said.

His voice came scratchy through the radio. “Give me the word and we’re on. Piper is waiting.”

I looked at Indy. “You ready?”

He took a breath, then nodded.

I spoke into the radio. “Okay. We’ll need a few minutes.”

His voice whispered through the receiver. “Pipopotamus is on standby.”

“Okay. And remember, you’ve got to tell us if he starts to go back inside.”

Sid took a moment. “Dude, I got a bad feeling about this.”

“It’ll work,” I said. “Just don’t lose your cool.”

I clipped the radio on my belt and stood, stretching my legs. “Let’s go.”

Indy stood, following me along the alley to a huge storage container against the apartment building. I hopped on a stack of crates next to a Dumpster, then balanced on the edge of the green bin, jumping up to grab the edge of the container and pulling myself up. Once on top of the container, I padded down to the fire escape ladder, which hung four feet from where I stood. Indy followed me, shaking his head. I saw that we’d have to jump across the span to grab the ladder.

Adrenaline pumped through me as I took a few steps back
and ran, jumping the distance and slamming into the metal ladder. Just before I fell, I looped my arm through a rung and hung, windmilling my feet in the empty space below and throwing my other arm up and through another rung. Scrunching up my legs, I got a foot through the bottom rung and pulled myself up. I looked back at Indy. “You come when I get to the first landing,” I whispered.

Sweat beaded on my forehead, and a drip, slow and itchy, ran down into my eye, burning like acid. I wiped it on my shoulder and climbed the wobbly metal rungs, trying to be as quiet as possible. When I reached the first floor, I sat on the metal grated landing and caught my breath. This was crazy. Insane.

I looked at Indy, and he hesitated. We were too far away to risk talking, so I motioned for him. No time to be a pussy, Indy. Come on. You can do it. A moment later, Indy was flying through the air, flailing as he reached for the ladder. With a rattle, he banged his arm through the rung, grunting with the impact.

I looked up. Two more floors before we could reach the ledge that would take us to his window. I sighed, thinking we should just go to the door, bust it in, take the bat, and run, but I couldn’t risk the plan.

With Indy following, I climbed to the next level, stopping when a light in a window next to the ladder went on. I smashed myself against the wall, waiting several minutes before the light went off, then continued up, my hands coated with red rust from the weathered metal and my breath coming heavy.

Ten minutes later, we crouched on the landing of the third floor, looking over the side rail at the ledge running the length of the building. Not more than a foot wide. I stared at it, almost chickening out, then climbed the rail and stepped onto it.

My mind raced. On any day of the week, I could walk a straight line on a twelve-inch-wide board with my eyes closed, but forty feet up and with fear and adrenaline streaking through me like a million bolts of lightning, I shook. My legs felt like wet spaghetti noodles, and my pulse must have been at over two hundred. I felt like I was going to have a heart attack.

Beside me on the ledge, Indy whispered in my ear, “This is so not right, man. Crazy.”

“We can do this. We have to,” I said, inching my way to the corner of the building, staying flat against the brick, and peeking around to the alley. Nobody was down there, and I could see the glow from a streetlight at the entrance. Down one long wall, less than fifteen yards away, was the window. It seemed like a million miles.