Latitude Zero (12 page)

21

THE NEXT
morning I got up early to help my mom with those graduation proofs. I couldn’t stop thinking about the real proof I needed to be looking at. Proof of Juan Carlos’s stolen spare bike. Or at least a solid lead. Having to work for my mom all day today was a huge setback. But that was the deal my parents had offered. Start paying off the Chain Reaction debt today, and I could go back to Compass Bikes tomorrow. Tomorrow: the day Darwin needed me to deliver the bike. Or else.

I started to twist my hair into the old sideways braid. Then I shook it out, brushed it, and let it hang straight over both shoulders. I slipped on a blue cardigan to cover up my arm bandage and put on a little makeup. I stepped back from the mirror. Not so bad.

I beat my mom to the studio. I paused in the doorway, turning on the lights, illuminating all those photos of happy children and parents on the walls. It made me sick to my stomach to think Darwin was capable of destroying all this with the push of a button, the click of a mouse, sending a fake incriminating photo and a complaint to the local police. Even if nothing could be proved—because of course she didn’t do anything—the complaint alone would bring her down. People trusted her with their children. Nobody would go to a family portrait studio that had a hint of scandal, just like most sponsors wouldn’t back cycling teams that had any suspicion of drugs.

I didn’t have much time to myself before my mom came to work. I went behind the screen she used to separate an area for portrait sittings. I set up my video camera on a tripod, then sat down opposite it, on a stool against a plain black screen. I hit
RECORD
using the remote control. I’d memorized the introduction I wrote out last night. The words came easily now.

“Hi! Welcome to Volunteen, my brand-new vlog about young adults who are making a difference. I’m Tessa Taylor, and I’ll be your guide as we journey into all kinds of communities and meet some truly inspiring people. We’ll learn what’s at the heart of their volunteer work, whom it benefits, and how you, too, can get involved. Our first episode will take us to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and a unique shop called Compass Bikes, right near MIT. ‘Taking You Places’ is their slogan. And they aren’t kidding. A shipping container filled with four hundred donated bikes, and countless bike parts and gear, will be heading to Ecuador tomorrow. I’ll be helping them out, and giving you the inside story about this awesome project. Along the way you’ll learn about a cyclist with a vision. Juan Carlos Macias-Léon, of Quito, Ecuador. Join us for the journey.”

My mom was standing in the doorway.

I hit the
STOP
button with the video camera’s remote.

She clapped softly. “You look beautiful, honey. And you sound great.”

“Is it okay? I’m going to upload it right now.”

“It’s good,” my mom said. “But do you really think it’s on the same level as
KidVision
? Are your viewers going to find your vlog online, with all the other stuff that’s out there?”

I sighed. “I don’t want to repeat
KidVision
. I’m trying something different now.”

“Your dad and I were thinking we could have a meeting with Kristen . . .”

“I don’t want to go back to
KidVision
, Mom. I want to be able to talk about whatever I want. To come up with my own ideas and write my own questions.”

My mom stood for a moment longer, looking at me, then took a seat on a stool opposite me. “I think I understand why you want to do this vlog.”

“You do?”

“Sure. Being your own boss? That’s freedom. That’s why I like my job so much. Most days anyway. I think the six-month-old I photographed yesterday afternoon was calling all the shots.” She laughed wryly. “Anyway. I knew when I was about your age that I wanted to do my own thing. Watching you do this vlog—wow. It brings it all back.”

“Wait—you knew since you were my age you wanted to take pictures of kids?”

She looked down. “No. I came into that later. What I really wanted to do? When I was your age, and into my twenties? I wanted to be out in the field. Working for human rights organizations, as a photographer.”

I stared at her. “I thought you loved taking pictures of kids.”

“I’ve
come
to love it. It has its rewards. It’s steady work—people seem to keep having babies. And it’s great to think I’m preserving memories for generations.” She gazed at a wall of framed baby and toddler portraits. “But to this day, for every well-off family’s kids I photograph, all those cuties in their little J.Crew outfits, I can’t help thinking of very different kids, all over the world, or even in our own city, who don’t have heirloom photographs. Or expensive clothes. Or even basic comforts. Those are the kids I thought I’d take pictures of. It’s their images I see when I look at that wall, like negative images. Ghosts. The photos not taken. They haunt me.”

I let this sink in for a moment. I’d never seen this side of my mom, this sepia tinge of regret. “How would taking pictures of needy kids change anything?” I asked.

“Because pictures are powerful. I thought I could be the kind of photographer who uses images to inspire change. But that wasn’t the path I took.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Fear, maybe?”

“What were you scared of?”

“Let’s see.” My mom counted on her fingers. “Risk? Success? The unknown? Everything.” She let out a long breath. “Yeah, everything. Here’s a story. About being afraid. When I was twenty-seven,
Newsweek
gave me my big break. I had money to go to Juárez, Mexico, with a journalist and take pictures of border town kids.”

“What happened?”

“I lasted three days. I got a terrible case of Montezuma’s revenge.
And
roving gangs of young men followed me around when I did manage to crawl out of my hotel room for an hour. Then one of them stole my camera bag. I lost my Nikon, my lenses, everything. The journalist I was partnering with was furious. He demanded they send someone down to replace me. Which they were only too happy to do.”

“Oh my God, Mom. You never said anything about all this.” I glanced at the photo of the slums on a hill. “Wait. Did you take that picture? In Mexico?”

“I did.” She smiled. “I’ve always liked that image. I keep it up to remind myself that there are other people and things to document. It gives me some perspective.”

“And the Mexican blanket—was that from the trip, too?”

“Yes.” She laughed wryly. “My one souvenir. I wrapped myself in it like an enchilada the whole time I was in that hotel room. I keep it to remind myself I went there. Otherwise it would feel like some distant dream. But it was real. As real as it gets.”

The morning sunlight shifted through the window, lighting up my mom’s face, softening her features. I saw her in a new light, too. It was freaky that she had had other dreams and ambitions I never knew about. Freaky, but kind of cool. “Why didn’t you go back there and try again?” I asked her.

“It’s water under the bridge. I did consider it, once. Even before your dad. I thought I’d do portraiture for a while until I got up my nerve to try again, or to face
Newsweek
and grovel for a second chance.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No. I met your dad and spent some years working in retail, in camera shops, just to help pay the bills while he was still working for Greenpeace. Then we had you, and suddenly running off to war zones or refugee camps didn’t sound so appealing.” My mom looked at me. “I guess what I’m trying to say, Tessa, is that I was scared. I let one negative experience define my entire career. I took the easier road. Even though, looking back at that brief stint in Mexico, what I remember most is how
alive
I felt. Being scared, being sick, that was all part of the experience.”

“So let
me
have an experience,” I pleaded. “I want to make some of my own decisions. Even if they’re not the best ones.”

My mom looked at me, searchingly. “You know what I see? My talented daughter putting herself out there in the world. How many kids get to be on TV?”

I shrugged. “I had nothing to do with it. Dad got me the job.”

“He had a connection, yes, and he knew some media experience would give you a leg up for a reporting career. But you wouldn’t have held that job for so long if you weren’t talented. Am I right?”

“I guess.”

“And now, look how you’re branching out. Volunteering at a bike shop, when I’ve never even known you to hold a screwdriver! Starting a vlog! Tessa, I don’t want to see you take unethical risks, like that charity ride business. That was totally wrong.”

I looked down, bracing myself for a fresh lecture.

“But I guess what I’m trying to say, Tessa, is I see your point. We’ve taught you to be extra cautious. Maybe too cautious. You should know how to rise to a challenge.”

I held my breath. Where was she going with this?.

“You know something?” she went on. “I’m glad to see you trying new things. I don’t want you to be someone who does everything to please other people. I don’t want you to be some character. I want you to be a person of character.”

“So . . . can I go to Compass Bikes today
and
tomorrow, to help out and to film?”

My mom smiled and handed me my video camera case. “Pack it up. I’ll give you a ride.”

22

ALL MORNING
at Compass Bikes, I interviewed mechanics and salespeople. Remembering one of Bianca Slade’s tips about getting sources to relax and to trust you, I started out with simple questions about what bikes they liked best and how they got into cycling. Eventually I worked my way around to asking about their connection to Juan Carlos. I got great stories about Juan Carlos’s quiet sense of humor, his patience, and his burning motivation to help his country—especially Ecuadorian kids.

A portrait of a saint emerged. The guy had no dirt in his history. No one could even tell me how he’d gotten that scar on his neck. Some said they’d never even noticed it. Had he hung out much with non-cyclists? Shady characters? No, just his teammates, people said. Most often, he came into the shop on his own, worked a shift with the kids, and left. A condition of his visa was enrollment in school, so between classes at Newton North, online study, working out, and training, he didn’t have much spare time for friends. “The poor guy had no life. No free time for doing just normal teen guy stuff,” one older salesclerk said with a sigh.

Occasionally, she added, he talked about his best friend and fellow racer el Ratón back home in Ecuador. “He was hoping to help his friend come to the U.S. and race here,” she said, showing me a printout of an Ecuadorian newspaper article that had been pinned up on the growing shrine. The article, dated from before Juan Carlos came to the United States last year, was about the two promising young cyclists in Quito, the Mouse and the Condor. A photo showed both of them atop a hill, holding bikes up above their heads like conquering heroes.

I also asked those who’d gone to Chain Reaction if they’d seen Juan Carlos before the ride. Nobody had. They’d all been busy manning the Compass Bikes booth in the staging area.

On my morning break, I worked up the courage to talk to Gage. After all, he’d been at Chain Reaction all that morning, too, and might have noticed something. He might even know about the stolen bike.

“That’s impossible,” Gage said when I asked him if he knew anything about the stolen bike. “If Juan Carlos’s spare bike got stolen, it would have made the news.”

He was right. I’d been checking news websites and cycling forums regularly, and there’d been no mention of a missing bike. I sighed. Why did every path I went down have to be a dead end?

I had no leads. I’d be giving Darwin nothing tomorrow. Would I have to go to the ghost bike shrine empty-handed, so at least these guys wouldn’t show up at my house? My nerves felt frayed. My heart raced. There had to be some nugget of information I could dig up about that bike, some bone to throw Darwin so that he would leave me alone.

On my lunch break, I borrowed a staff member’s laptop and took it to a picnic table outside. I went to the Chain Reaction website, scanning desperately for any sort of lead, any possible new mention of a reported bike theft. As soon as I got to the home page, a new icon popped up, showing a camera. The link promised newly uploaded photos from the race and the recreational ride. Maybe a photographer had caught something. Like my mom had said, images could be powerful. I just had to find the right one.

I clicked through a slideshow of approximately one million pre-ride pictures, paying extra-close attention to pictures with trees in the background. No shadowy characters emerged.

I read on the site that a photographer had been stationed on the side of the road at mile ten, taking pictures of everyone. I scrolled through thumbnail after thumbnail. Hundreds of mile-ten portraits. After a while I forgot I was looking for possible bike thieves. I wanted to see the look on Jake’s face. Maybe it would betray his guilt. Or regret at having ditched me.

But even after clicking through the whole gallery, I found no mile-ten portrait of Jake.

That didn’t make sense. The photography checkpoint was at a narrow stretch of road where the riders were forced to ride single file. There were concrete barriers on either side; there was no way he could have skirted that camera. Jake had texted that he’d made it all the way to mile twenty, to the first official water stop, before realizing I wasn’t behind him.

How could he have made it through mile ten but escaped the photographer’s lens?

Had he really made it as far as he said he did? Or had he lied to me? And why?

23

LATER THAT
afternoon, while still puzzling over the missing mile-ten picture of Jake, I caught up with Mari. She was alone, finally, in a corner of the mechanics’ shop, with a bike on a repair stand, cleaning a chain. She seemed hypnotized as she cranked the pedals around to run the chain through the degreasing solvent, which smelled strongly of oranges.

“Hey,” I said. “I want to thank you.”

“For what?” She picked up something that looked like a toothbrush. Solvent spattered as she scrubbed the derailleur.

“For letting me volunteer here and film my vlog. And for not completely hating me.”

She shrugged. “It was Gage’s idea to let you work and film here.”

“Oh. Right.” I looked down.

Her face softened. “But I don’t hate you, Dora. I respect what you’re doing. Juan Carlos would respect it, too. He wanted more people to know about Vuelta, and about Ecuador.” She gave the pedals a few more spins. The solvent dripping into a bucket below went from milky orange to black. Mari looked around, then said, in a hushed voice, “So what’s up with this rumor you’re spreading? About Juan Carlos’s missing spare bike? I’ve heard you asking questions all morning, about what people saw at Chain Reaction.”

I hesitated. I wanted to trust her. But not knowing where Darwin’s eyes and ears were spooked me. What if someone was planted here in the bike shop, and heard me talking about him? Darwin would immediately make good on his threats. And I didn’t want Mari to get on their radar, either. So now was not the time to tell her the whole story about that spare bike. If Darwin connected Mari to me, she could be harassed, too.

“I heard his spare bike could be missing,” I said, trying to sound casual. “So I thought I’d see what I could find out, while I’m interviewing people about him.”

Mari gave me a long look. “Where are you hearing about this missing bike?”

“Online. Cycling forums.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “That’s not true. I read them all. Nobody’s mentioned a missing bike.”

I looked around. Gage was busy with a customer. Everyone else around us was busy with bikes. I spun a chain through the degreaser so the sound would mask my words. “Okay. I saw it,” I confessed in a low voice. “His spare bike. With the white handlebars. When I cut through the woods with Jake.”

Mari pressed her lips together and stared at me, intently.

“I passed it in some bushes, near the walking trail,” I explained, deliberately skipping the whole Darwin chapter. “And when I went back to the woods the next day to look for it, it was gone.”

“So why didn’t you report the bike on Sunday, at the race?” Mari demanded.

“Because I was bandit riding. Because I might incriminate myself and Jake, being near it. And because I have no proof of what I saw.”

Gage loomed behind us. “Keeping busy, girls? I have lots to do if you’re running out of work.”

“We’re fine,” said Mari. She took the bike off the stand, put another one its place, and attached the chain cleaner to it. She spun the pedals, almost violently, until Gage, apparently satisfied, went into his office.

“I don’t get why you’re so mad at me. I’m just asking a few questions,” I said.

“I’m not mad. Not at you anyway.” Mari sighed. “They’re closing the crash scene investigation tomorrow. That’s what pisses me off.”

“Closing the investigation?” That meant I was out of the woods, so to speak. No helmet camera or witness had come forward to finger me. I wasn’t going to be questioned.

But what was Mari hoping an investigation would turn up? If she thought I was at fault in some way, due to my bandit riding, she could have reported
me
by now. And she hadn’t.

I followed Mari’s lead, hoisting another bike onto a stand. She set me up with another chain degreasing kit, and continued talking in a low voice as we both turned pedals.

“It’s just completely lame,” Mari said. “This whole half-assed investigation. The Cabot Police Department doesn’t care about cyclists.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Cabot has the worst statistics for bike accidents on their roads. They’re going to call this another accident and be done with it. It doesn’t help that Juan Carlos is from another country. They’re not going to put any money into figuring out what happened. And now the truth about why Juan Carlos went down is going to be buried with him.”

I reached out to her bike and stopped her pedals. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘the truth about why he
went down’
?
Why would you say that? What are you hoping they’ll find?”

“The truth about the bike he crashed on.”

I pictured the recurring image from the news: the badly mangled frame, broken into two pieces. Dirt streaks on green-taped handlebars.

“Everyone talks about this ‘tragic accident,’” Mari went on, her brows furrowed. “Tragic? Yes. Accident? Not so much. I’m not convinced anyway.”

My thoughts whirled. Was Mari suggesting Juan Carlos might have died on the route because of a mechanical issue? Or
foul play
? If he had—
if
he had—I was not completely responsible for his crash or his death. “Why aren’t you convinced? Tell me your reasons.”

“Some rider snapped a picture of the bike on the ground, right after Juan Carlos got loaded into the ambulance. I can show you,” she added, watching Gage leave his office. “Follow me,” she whispered, as Gage went to help a salesclerk with some problem at the register.

Mari led me to Gage’s office and sat me down at the computer. The window was open to a website called Sports Xplor. The screen image was mostly black, with white and yellow text.

I noticed a list of major pro cycling events running down the screen and what looked like weird dancing fruit beneath each event. Tour de France, Giro d’Italia, Vuelta a España, USA Pro Cycling Challenge, Pan-American Cycling Tour. When I read that last event title, a sob caught in my throat. Juan Carlos was going home in a body bag, not on a bike. Not with his teammates to compete in his homecoming tour.

“Should we be in here?” I asked.

“It’s fine. He lets me use his computer when I need to. This’ll just take a second anyway.”

Mari opened a new window, went to a cycling forum, and pulled up a photo a user had posted. It showed Juan Carlos’s bike, split apart in two places on the frame: at the top, near the seat, and on the lower bar. Twisted metal threads made me think of guts spilling out.

“Wow. It almost looks like it exploded,” I said.

“That’s what carbon fiber does when it fails. Gage says these bikes are death machines and everyday riders shouldn’t be on them. He won’t even sell pure carbon fiber bikes here.”

I thought back to Bianca Slade’s interview with Chris Fitch. Cadence made carbon fiber bikes for high-end consumers and for racing teams, and one consumer model had had a safety issue. It sounded like there’d been a recall.

“If carbon’s so dangerous, why do all the pro teams ride carbon fiber?” I asked.

“It’s ultralight. It’s fast,” said Mari. “Racers go through bikes so quickly, they’re usually replaced before problems show up. And they don’t train on full carbon. But the way Gage explains it, these frames are mortal, and carbon fiber can have cancer.”

“Cancer? It’s a bike!”

“The carbon can be really vulnerable to damage, but you usually can’t tell by looking,” Mari explained. “Not like aluminum, which will bulge or bend if there’s a problem and at least give you some warning. Here, check this out.” Mari rummaged through a box under Gage’s desk and pulled up a one-foot hunk of a bike frame. “See? The tube looks solid, but it’s soup inside. Little threads. The resin splinters easily. If anything compromises the integrity of the frame—a hit to it at the right angle, or some defect—those fibers will just blow apart in a crash.”

I took it from her, inspecting it. I couldn’t believe something so light and delicate would hold up a person. At high speeds, too. “What’s this collection of broken stuff for?”

“We’ve had bikes in here that people have run into a guardrail, or dropped off the back of their car,” said Mari. “Customer thought it seemed fine, and then they hit a pothole. The whole frame can fail if it’s been weakened. Gage collects these pieces to help educate customers who are determined to ride all-carbon bikes.” She took the carbon tube fragment from me and tossed it back in the bin.

“Maybe that’s what happened to Juan Carlos’s bike in the crash,” I suggested. “Maybe he hurt his bike before and didn’t even know it.”

“I thought of that, too,” said Mari. “But the team had brand-new bikes from Cadence. The Chain Reaction race was their maiden voyage, a test run on them before the PAC tour. Most racers don’t crash from catastrophic carbon failures. Regular people do because they don’t take care of their bikes right, or they use them too long.”

“What about product failure? Could Juan Carlos have been riding a defective bike?”

“Probably not. Racing bikes are ruthlessly inspected both in and out of the factory, and by the team mechanic before they go out on a race. Anyway, I’ve studied this crash picture for days. It doesn’t seem right. At a relatively low speed, under thirty, his bike shouldn’t have completely blown out like that. If I could only see the damage myself, I could get a better idea.”

“So what’s your theory?”

She hesitated. “I think somebody didn’t want him to finish that race.”

I squeezed the arms of the desk chair as I let Mari’s words sink in. For days I’d been totally focused on the bike theft. That was important to figure out because Darwin was demanding I hand over that bike. But I hadn’t been thinking about the bike that
crashed
, or the possibility that there might have been two separate bike crimes. A theft
and
a sabotage.

And if Mari’s sabotage theory were right? This was
huge
. It meant I wasn’t to blame for his death. Although it didn’t bring Juan Carlos back, I could live with myself.

But who would do something so awful? And why? “We have to see that damaged bike from the crash,” I said, standing up fast. “We have to get over to the Cabot Police station.”

“It’s with Dylan Holcomb,” Mari said. “The police didn’t keep the bike because it was just an accident, not involving a car. Dylan stores all the bikes at a bike school he runs on the side.”

I followed her out of Gage’s office, back to the bikes we were cleaning. “How do you know that?”

“Gage called over there yesterday, wanting to see the busted frame, and Dylan was really rude. He said the damage was consistent with what you’d find in an accident. End of story.”

“If you found evidence that it was tampered with, would that be a game-changer?”

“Well, yeah,” said Mari. “If there were signs of foul play, the police would have to keep the investigation open. Because then it’s not just a bike accident. Then we’re talking homicide.”

Murder.

Unlike the bike theft situation, where I was implicated, the possibility of sabotage had to get reported to the police. And Darwin couldn’t be mad about that, since it was a whole separate issue. I started pacing, thinking out loud. “So we could take the frame to the police and—”

“Whoa. Slow down, Dora,” said Mari. “This isn’t a TV show. You can’t just make a three-step plan and have a happy ending in thirty minutes. First of all, we can’t take the frame. It belongs to the team. And I’m sure Dylan Holcomb wants to keep that busted bike under the radar.”

“Why?”

“Because if there are questions about its performance, he’s going to have some explaining to do. Those team bikes are his responsibility.”

Dylan Holcomb. The new team mechanic had had unobstructed access to both Juan Carlos’s main bike and spare bike. Could he be a suspect in either of the bike crimes?

I didn’t know enough about him. It didn’t seem like he could be working for Darwin, or else Darwin would have gone straight to Dylan to find Juan Carlos’s spare bike. He wouldn’t be bothering me. And I couldn’t imagine a motive for the team mechanic to harm the star cyclist.

Still, even if Dylan had nothing to do with either theft or sabotage, it was his responsibility to safeguard the bikes. “We have to talk to Dylan,” I said, my voice rising with excitement. “Maybe he knows more than he’s letting on. And you have to look at that bike from the crash.”

“When? Team Cadence-EcuaBar leaves for Colombia to start the Pan-American Cycling Tour on Friday.”

“Tomorrow, then?” I still had a day to get Darwin a lead.

“No, tomorrow’s the container load here. I’ll be busy with that all day. Then I’m leaving for Ecuador on Saturday.”

“So we have to go talk to Dylan today. How soon can you get out of here?”