You Can Run (20 page)

T
risha was in Mr. Hanover's arms. Her eyes were closed. Her head lolled against his chest. Her arms and legs dangled as limply as a rag doll's. I glanced at Beej, who hung back near the entrance to the driveway. She raised her camera and snapped a picture before Mr. Hanover even noticed.Another man came out of the door behind Mr. Hanover—the guy with the aviator glasses. When he spotted me and Beej, he said, “Hey!” and raised his hand in front of his face. Mr. Hanover turned his head. Unlike the big man in the aviator sunglasses, Mr. Hanover didn't look angry. He looked stunned.

“Poor Trisha,” he said, nodding at her, still limp in his arms. “She isn't feeling well.”

With a little help from her friends
, I thought.
How fast is police response time?

“I'm taking her to the doctor,” Mr. Hanover said. “With her mom so sick, it's all been too much for her.”

The man in the sunglasses nodded, but there was nothing in the gesture that suggested agreement. Then I saw who he was nodding to.Another man, a big bouncer-sized man whom I had also seen back at the abandoned building. Mr. Hanover saw him too, and looked worried.

“Dan,” he said. It sounded like a warning.

I stood very quietly for a moment, listening for police sirens in the distance and hearing instead the pounding of my heart in my chest. Then, because there didn't seem to be any alternative, I said, “The thing is, Mr. Hanover, Trisha made a film.”

Mr. Hanover understood immediately, but the man in the aviator sunglasses didn't. He frowned and looked at Mr. Hanover.

“You saw the camera in her bag,” I said. “I know you did.”

The man in the aviator sunglasses scowled. “What's she talking about, Carl?”

“We have the footage,” I said. I nodded to Beej. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her waving the memory card back and forth so that Mr. Hanover could see it. “She told the whole story,” I said. “Everything she knows.”

The man in the sunglasses reached inside his jacket. Behind me Beej shouted, “Smile!” She was pointing her digital camera at the man.

“Hey!” the man said again, his hand coming out of his jacket. And then there it was: a gun.

“Say cheese,” Beej said, aiming her camera again.

“Hey!” The man turned his head now.

“Grab her!” he said to his partner, the bouncer.

“You,” the man said, pointing his gun at me.

“Cheese,” Beej said.

The man grew even more flustered now, but not because of Beej and her camera. He heard a sound in the distance. It was pulsing and slowly getting louder.

Sirens.

Then there was a blur of activity. The bouncer thundered past me. I turned and Beej wasn't there anymore. The guy in the sunglasses swore, over and over, then moved toward the car and jumped into it while Mr. Hanover just stood there like a statue of a man with a rag doll girl in his arms.

Then there were police officers advancing on the place. Blocking the driveway.

Then there was Nick.

And Beej, talking to a cop a mile a minute.

While Mr. Hanover stood exactly where he was, looking pale under his nice tan.

F
or a guy with a ruptured spleen, a couple of cracked ribs and a monster headache, my father looked exceptionally happy. Possibly it was because the case he had been working on had reached a conclusion.

People were talking, and it looked as if the horse trainer who had died was a victim of arson. He had died because Carmine Doig had needed fast cash more than he needed well-insured horses. The fire investigator's suicide was looking like murder—apparently, he'd had second thoughts about ruling the fire accidental. Trevor Bailey, the claims adjuster who had signed the report, talked to the police. He told them that he hadn't done the actual investigation. Carl Hanover had handled that. Then, using his wife's illness as an excuse to take a leave from work, he had asked Trevor Bailey to handle the last-minute details and sign the report. That way, his name didn't appear on the official record. Carl Hanover was arrested on charges of conspiracy to commit fraud. He said he'd gone along with Doig's plan because he was being blackmailed. My father said if that was true, maybe he could make a deal with the prosecutor. Of course, there was still the matter of what he and his blackmailers had been planning to do to Trisha.

Possibly my father looked happy because, as he had said over and over, he was proud of me. Okay, I shouldn't have confronted Mr. Hanover the way I had—I think he scolded me about it partly to pacify my mother—but still, “Good thinking, Robbie. Brilliant thinking. You probably saved that girl's life.”

Mostly, though, I think my dad was so happy because sitting in the hospital with Vern and me was my mother. Nobody had forced her to come. Nor had she come because she was angry—she wasn't. She had arrived at the police station shortly after the police had taken us all there to make statements. Vern had called her. She had stayed by my side while I told my story (and Beej and Nick, in other rooms, told theirs). Trisha had been taken to the hospital to recover from whatever her stepfather had drugged her with.

After we had finished with the police, my mother said, “We'd better go and tell Mac what's going on.” By the time we got there, Vern had already briefed my father. And there he was, grinning. Mom looked calm and pleased to see he was recovering. We were a pretty happy group.

“I'd sure like to talk to Trisha,” I said.

My father glanced at Vern.

“She was released from here an hour ago, but you'll probably find her at St. Mary's,” Vern said. “That's where her mother is.”

St. Mary's specializes in cancer treatments.

“I can drive you,” my mother said.

 

. . .

I bought some flowers in the hospital gift shop and took them with me upstairs to the room where Trisha's mother was. Through the open door, I could see Trisha sitting by her mother's bedside. She looked pale and tired. She got up when she saw me and thanked me for the flowers, which she set on a table near her mother's bed. Then she came out into the hall.

“I wanted to apologize,” I said. “I'm sorry for what I said at school, and I'm really sorry for leading your stepfather to you.”

“It's okay,” Trisha said. “You didn't know. And the police said you saved my life.”

I glanced into the room behind her.

“How is your mother?”

Trisha moved away from the door. Her voice was quiet but strong when she said, “Not good. But you don't know my mom. She's a fighter. She's not going to give up, and neither am I.”

For the first time, I actually admired Trisha. She seemed so determined.

“What happened that day, Trisha?” I said. “The day you left school.”

“I went home to get the work I had done. I really did do it, Robyn,” she said. “I know you think I didn't, but I did. It's just with my mom. . . .”

“I believe you,” I said.

“I let myself into the house and Carl was there. I heard him talking to a man he called Carmine. There was another man with him—he was really creepy. He was the guy who found me at Beej's place.”

The man with the aviator sunglasses.

“The man, Carmine, was telling Carl that what had happened to the fire investigator could easily happen to him. The night before I was in my mom's room with her. We were watching the news together. I like to keep her company, you know? There was an item about the fire investigator. It said he had committed suicide. Carl came into the room while it was on. You should have seen the look on his face when he heard that. He went white. The report mentioned the fire at Carmine Doig's stable. And here was Carl, talking to a man named Carmine, and Carmine was threatening him.”

“Anyway,” Trish continued, “the guy with Carmine came out into the hall and saw me. He tried to grab me. So did Carl, but I got away from them. When I was running out the door, he said something about my mother. That something would happen to her. But I ran anyway. Afterward, I started to worry. What did he mean? Was he going to hurt her?”

“Is that why you tried to call home?”

She nodded. “I phoned from a shopping mall. Carl wouldn't let me speak to her. He said if I didn't come home, he couldn't guarantee that those men wouldn't hurt her. He said they would hurt her for sure if I went to the police. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want him to find me, but I didn't want him to hurt my mother, either.”

“Is that when you contacted Kenny?”

She nodded.

“He said he knew someone who could help me.”

“Beej.”

“Yeah. And I tried to call home again. But Carl still wouldn't let me talk to my mother. He told me to come home. He said, ‘You don't know what kind of people these are, Trisha. But if you come home, I think I could convince them not to hurt you.' I didn't believe him, so I made a recording, just in case anything happened to me or my mother. I wasn't going to let them get away with it.”

“Where is the recording?”

“Kenny has it. I told him that if anything happened, he should give it to the police.”

“I heard that your stepfather is blaming it all on Carmine Doig and his people,” I said. “He says Doig was blackmailing him, that it was Doig's idea to make it look like you ran away for good. They were going to say you took off because you thought your mother. . . .” I couldn't make myself say the words. “I'm glad it worked out, Trisha,” I said. “I hope your mother gets better.”

“Thanks, Robyn,” she said. “Me too.”

 

. . .

When I went to see my father again, he was looking a lot better. He sat up as I told him what Trisha had told me. But there was one thing I didn't understand.

“Who attacked you, Dad? Did it have anything to do with Carmine Doig?”

My father nodded. He said he'd received a call promising him information. He had been able to pick one of the men who'd attacked him out of a photo array. The man my father had identified worked for Carmine Doig. I went pale when I realized how close my father had come to—

“It's okay, Robbie,” my father said. He squeezed my hand. “I'm fine.”

It took me a while to get rid of the scared, shaky feeling. But I had one more question. I almost didn't want to ask it, but I needed to know.

“Dad, did you tell Mr. Hanover to trick me?”

The question seemed to hurt my father.

“You went outside in the hall to talk to him the last time he was at your place,” I reminded him. “The next thing I knew, he handed me a letter with a tracking device in it.”

“He told me he had the feeling you weren't being completely honest,” my father said. He paused to look at me, until I felt my cheeks flush. “He said Denise was frantic to get a message to Trisha. I told him I trusted you, Robbie. I didn't like the way he approached you with that letter, and I told him so. He apologized. I should have thought more about it at the time.”

“I should have told you about Kenny,” I said.

He looked hard at me. “I'm sure you had your reasons not to,” he said. “You're old enough to make your own decisions. You're also old enough to live with the consequences.”

He was right about that.

I
sat in my mother's car at the curb outside of my father's building.

“Are you sure you don't mind?” I said.

“Robyn, for heaven's sake, you've asked me that a dozen times today. The answer is still the same. No, I don't mind.”

“But we've always spent my birthday together,” I said.

“Well, maybe it's time for a change,” she said.

“You want to come upstairs and say hi to Dad?”

“I don't think so.” She looked at me for a few moments. “When you and Nick go out tonight,” she said, “your father's going to tell you, ‘Don't do anything
I
wouldn't do.' But that doesn't cover much territory. So do me a favor: Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”