Home for the Holidays (16 page)

Nicky and Tommy ran forward, deafened by the applause, Nicky as red as an apple.

They shook Smoot's hand and accepted their prize envelopes. Tommy whispered to Nicky, “What's in here? Whatta we get?”

“Don't be greedy,” Nicky said. “You won!” He turned around to show the envelope to Donna and the others.

“Hey,” he said. “Where's my dad?”

“So I'm wise to the whole thing,” Van Allen said. “Despite your little plan—whatever it was—you lose. You thought you could fool me? You can't.”

Borelli wanted to shout at him. He wanted to say, “Fool you? What plan? Turn me loose, you maniac!”

But he couldn't. Van Allen had forced him to drive the snowy streets to Fairport with the gun trained on him the entire time. He made him park outside the old brewery building. He pulled a roll of duct tape out of his pocket and bound Borelli's hands together. Then he stuck a strip of it across his mouth.

“The reporter you contacted? I own that guy,” Van Allen said. “He warned me—a guy named Nick and his friend from Brooklyn.
That
was hard to figure out.”

“Mmmmff.”

“Sure, sure. Yell your head off. First thing in the morning, we're going in and signing all the papers. But now the name on the check is going to be
yours
, not mine. You're paying for the whole thing. But I'm going to own it. Squawk, and you'll get it. Go to the cops, and I'll come after that sweet family of yours. Get me?”

“Mmmmfff!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Van Allen said. “You might as
well shut up. We got a few hours to go before the bank opens.”

The Snow Ball was over. Outside, it had begun to snow again. Nicky's mother, his grandmother, Uncle Frankie and Donna stood outside the country club doors, waving goodbye to people and watching the snow fall.

Marian Galloway and Amy pulled up in the Galloway Mercedes. The driver's-side window came down slowly, and Mrs. Galloway's face smiled out.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Francis,” she said. “If you'd like to stop by for a nightcap, I'm going to be up for a while.”

“Yeah, maybe later,” Frankie said. “I'll stop by. Or I'll call.”

“Good ni-ight,” she said, and drove away.

“Francis?”
Nicky's mother said. “Your brother is going
to die.”

“He is if he kids me about it,” Frankie said. “'Cause I'll kill him.”

“I think it's
darling,”
Nicky's mother said.
“Francis.”

“It's my real name, like Francis Albert,” Frankie said.

Nicky's mother stared at him.

“Francis Albert Sinatra?” Frankie asked. “The singer? Didn't your husband teach you anything?”

“I'll ask him when I see him,” Nicky's mother said. “If we ever find him.”

After a moment, Nicky and Tommy jogged up from opposite directions.

“He's not here,” Tommy said. “I checked inside and out.”

“And I checked the parking lot,” Nicky said. “The Navigator's gone.”

“But it makes no sense,” Nicky's mother said. “He wouldn't just
leave.”

“Maybe there's something else going on,” Frankie said. “Did he say anything at all about where he was going?”

“Nothing!” Nicky's mother said. “He just said, ‘Something has come up.’ With Van Allen.”

Nicky and Tommy looked at each other. Tommy stared at the ground.

Uncle Frankie caught that and said, “Okay—what?”

“We—that is, I—there's something we have to tell you,” Nicky said. “Me and Tommy— Van Allen's a crook! He's not even Van Allen. He's Arlen! Patrick Van Arlen! Wait! Without the ‘Van’ part. Just Arlen. He murdered Arlen! And he's planning to trick Dad! He's—”

“Stop!” Frankie said. “What are you talking about? Start over.”

Nicky told Frankie about overhearing Van Allen and the two thugs in the amusement park, then going to the library, then meeting Sean O'Farrell at the
Ridgeway Register.

“And what were you planning to do about this?” Frankie asked. “Turn into Sherlock Holmes? Solve the whole thing without telling anyone?”

“We just found out!” Nicky said. “We were trying to
figure out what to do. We didn't want to get Dad in trouble. And we were scared.”

“All right, all right, enough,” Frankie said. “However it started, it don't look good now. It sounds like maybe Van Allen thought your dad was on to him. Could someone have told Van Allen? Who else knew?”

“Nobody,” Nicky said. “I mean, us. And Van Allen, of course. And the reporter.”

“And anybody they told, right?” Uncle Frankie said.

“But who would they tell?” Nicky's mother asked. “They're both in this up to their necks.”

“Let's hope so,” Frankie said. “And let's hope Nick's
not.
Do you know if there's anything illegal about the Fairport thing?”

“Of course there's not!” Nicky's mother said. “Remember who you're talking about.”

“Then we've got a shot,” Frankie said. He stared at the falling snow for a moment, then said, “Maybe we'll get lucky. Nicky, you got your cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Call the house. I'll call your father's cell. He ain't gonna be there, but we'll try.”

For the next minute, everyone stood in silence while the phones rang. Nicky got the answering machine at home. Frankie got voice mail on the cell.

“All right … like I thought,” Frankie said. “It's like this. We're all going to squeeze into the Crown Vic and go back to the house. Then I'm going to find my brother. Come on.”

The ride home was quiet. The streets were empty. Cars parked along the road looked like great white beasts, slumped over asleep in the snow.

Frankie pulled into the Borellis' driveway and helped his mother, Nicky's mother and Donna get to the house. The sidewalk was slick with snow.

“I was planning on taking the lads back to the city,” Frankie said. “That ain't gonna happen. Elizabeth, you gotta call Donna's folks and explain. But don't tell them what's going on. Just say it's late and I got a call and had to go to work. I'll run her home first thing tomorrow. And you gotta call Tommy's mom, too. Tell her the same thing.”

“All right,” Nicky's mother said. “But I'll have Tommy call and make his own excuses. Nicky, you're going to have to help me set up beds.”

“No, he can't,” Frankie said. “I need both of them with me. I don't know what this guy O'Farrell looks like. I don't know where Van Allen lives. And I don't know where the old brewery is. Guys, I need your help. Aright?”

“Is that where you think they are—at the brewery?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Frankie said. “But it's one place to look.”

Nicky's mother nodded grimly. “I know you'll be careful,” she said. “But … you
will
be careful, won't you?”

“Nothing bad is gonna happen to nobody, I promise,” Frankie said. “Except Van Allen. If he's got my brother, he's gonna wish he was never born.”

12

F
rankie drove the Crown Vic across Carrington, following Nicky's directions, to the Van Allen estate. It was a big modern house right on the river. It looked deserted. The house lights were out. The porch lights were out. The front lawn and walkway were covered with an unbroken carpet of snow. There was no Navigator.

“They ain't here,” Frankie said.

He drove to the interstate and headed south. There wasn't much traffic. The two boys sat in silence and watched the snowy streets go by.

“What's this do?” Tommy asked, pointing at the dashboard.

“That's the radio,” Frankie said, and flicked it on. The car filled with the sounds of police business.

“Six-two-eleven in progress at Bay Twelve and Park-side,” a dispatcher said. “Units in the vicinity respond.”

“Possible one-eight at four-nine-oh Ramsgate,” another dispatcher said. “Code black.”

“Wow,” Tommy said. “That's all police stuff? Is it in code?”

“Yeah, and it's all bad news,” Frankie said. “Every one of those calls is someone in trouble. The six-two-eleven is armed robbery. The one-eight is a domestic violence shooting. Luckily that ain't our business tonight.”

Frankie turned the dispatch radio off. Tommy tapped a small monitor on the dashboard and said, “How about this?”

“That's an onboard computer,” Frankie said. “In case you need a readout on a suspect or something. You swipe the driver's license. Find out who's been naughty and who's been nice, just like Santa Claus.”

“It's also a GPS, right?” Tommy said.

“Yeah,” Frankie said. “You got MapQuest and all that. You can find anything.”

“Nicky's dad has the same thing in his car,” Tommy said.

“What, in the Navigator?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “It's pretty cool. It was designed by the same guys that designed
BlackPla.net
Two
, you know?”

“Technology, huh?” Frankie said. “What'll they think of next?”

A few miles on, he said, “Okay. Here's the Fairport exit. This brewery, is it right in downtown?”

“It's near the old boardwalk,” Nicky said. “Down by the sea.”

“Okay,” Frankie said.

The Crown Vic slid along the darkened streets. Fair-port was even more deserted than Carrington. Frankie drove into the historic downtown district. The busted-up brick buildings looked haunted.

“That's it, there,” Nicky said, and pointed to the old brewery building. “That's Dad's building.”

It looked like nobody had been around it for ages. The cars on the street were all buried in snow. The brewery doors looked undisturbed. Frankie idled the Crown Vic and looked at the empty streets.

“I think we struck out,” he said. “Nobody's been around here tonight. Can you think of anyplace else they might be? Does Van Allen have a favorite bar or restaurant? Does he have a
goomada
?”

Nicky said, “A what?”

“A
goomada,”
Tommy said. “A
goomar.
You know, a girlfriend on the side.”

“How should
I
know?” Nicky said.

“Yeah, never mind,” Frankie said. He turned the Crown Vic around and started toward the interstate. “We could look around all night for these guys. We're wasting our time.”

“But what about the GPS?” Tommy said.

“What about it?” Frankie asked him. “Are we lost?”

“No, but we can use it to find the Navigator,” Tommy said. “I read about it in a computer game magazine. These
guys in California use the GPS to play a giant game of hide-and-seek—like, all over a whole city. If they're all on the same GPS network, they can track each other. Alls you need is the system number.”

“And how do you get that?”

“I think you need the license plate number and the password,” Tommy said. “Pull over.”

Tommy clicked on the GPS. He pushed Control and System. The screen read,
Enter coordinates.
Tommy said, “Okay, what's the plate number, Nicky?”

“It's, um—wait,” Nicky said. “Oh-two-B-B-K-five-six-seven.”

“Are you sure?” Frankie said. “How do you remember that?”

“Clarence calls the Navigator B. B. King, like the blues guy,” Nicky said. “So it's B-B-K. Then it's five-six-seven in a row.”

“Now the password,” Tommy said. “It's gotta be six letters. What do you think?”

Frankie said, “It's not his middle name.”

“I don't even know it,” Nicky said.

“What about his nickname?”

“My dad? He doesn't have a nickname.”

“Then what about yours?” Tommy said. He typed in “Nicky.” The screen said,
Access denied.

“That's not it,” Frankie said. “That's five letters, anyway.”

“Then what about this?” Tommy said. He typed in “NickyD,” and the screen said,
Access granted.

“Yes!” he said. “We're in.”

The screen came up with a black background and a green map of the eastern United States. At one edge of the map were a single blinking red dot and a single blinking green dot.

“What're the dots?” Frankie asked.

“The green is us, and the red is them,” Tommy said.

“Great,” Frankie said. “Now we know we're both somewhere on the eastern seaboard.”

“Wait,” Tommy said. He hit the down-arrow key twice. The screen disappeared and came back with a different grid. That one showed the state of New Jersey.

“Okay,” Frankie said, staring at the blinking red dot. “So we know they're not in Boston.”

“Wait,” Tommy said, and hit the down-arrow key twice more. The screen came back with a very tight grid— fifteen lines going left to right, fifteen going top to bottom. The blinking red dot and the blinking green dot were separated by two lines on the grid.

“They're here,” Tommy said.

“Where?” Frankie said, and stared out at the dark streets.

“Like, two blocks that way, toward the water,” Tommy said.

Frankie turned and stared at Tommy. “You're a genius, and you're wasting your life if you don't do something with that brain of yours,” Frankie said.

Frankie turned the Crown Vic toward the sea and drove slowly. He turned at the next corner, and at the one after that.

They drove along the boardwalk, down the street where Nicky and Tommy had stopped for a hot chocolate on that freezing cold day when they'd overheard Van Allen and the two goons.

“Look,” Nicky said. “There's that abandoned amusement park.”