Last Chance (21 page)

“Apparently it didn't go well,” my mother said. “According to Nick's aunt, Nick took an instant dislike to the man. He and his aunt had a big fight about it that night. Nick's aunt thinks that's why Nick took off on Saturday night. He has trouble keeping his emotions under control. That's what gets him into trouble every time, Robyn. That's why he's in that program at the animal shelter.”

I stared down into my tea. So that was the missing link, the explanation for why Nick had suddenly thrown it all away. He had lost his temper—again—and had taken his frustration out on someone else. It made sense to his aunt. It made sense to my mother.

So why didn't I want to believe it?

 

. . .

I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about what Nick had done. It was so stupid. Okay, so maybe he hadn't liked his aunt's new boyfriend. But to retaliate by sneaking out and taking someone else's car? And then run into a cyclist and not even stop to see how the person was? Nick had been putting all his energy into helping to rehabilitate a dog. He was helping Antoine and the others too. How could a person who was capable of being so patient and kind also be so rash and callous?

I tossed and turned.

That wasn't the only thing that bothered me. Why had it taken Nick so long to ditch the car? It was nearly four hours from the time Nick had hit the cyclist to the time when he had been seen dumping the car. What had he been doing all that time? And why had he driven the car north, out of the city, before abandoning it? Hadn't he been worried that someone had seen the accident and could call in a description of the car? Why hadn't he just got rid of the car and run?

And what about those fingerprints? Come on. When you hit someone with a car and then flee the scene, you just know that sooner or later—probably sooner—the cops are going to be all over that car. And if you've already got a record, you know your prints are in the system. And yet he didn't think to wipe the car clean? Even if he'd panicked at first, he'd had hours to figure things out before he ditched the car.

And come to think of it, why did he go all the way across town to take a car? Why didn't he just grab something in his aunt's neighborhood?

If only his aunt had watched those videos with him. If he hadn't been alone, he wouldn't have been able to leave the house.

Okay, so my mother was right when she said it wasn't his aunt's fault. But his aunt knew Nick. She knew he was upset, and she knew how he acted when he was upset. So why had she been so trusting? Why had she left him alone at eight thirty in the evening if she thought he might be upset enough to do something crazy?

Oh.

I sat up straight in bed, staring into the darkness. Then I switched on the light, reached for my phone, and dialed my father's number.

“You know Ed Jarvis, right?” I said.

“Robbie?” My father sounded groggy. “It's nearly midnight.”

“Sorry, Dad. Did I wake you?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Dad, I have Nick's backpack. I found it at the animal shelter. I want to give it back to him.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment before my father said, “But your mother is his lawyer. Couldn't she arrange to get it back to him?”

“Please, Dad?”

“You just want to return his backpack?”

“Well, and maybe talk to him.”

More silence. Then, “I'll call him in the morning. But I'm not making any promises, Robbie. Nick's in custody. There are rules about visitors.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

 

. . .

I dug up the phone book the next morning, flipped to the Ts, and looked up a number. Nick's aunt was surprised to hear from me, but she remembered who I was. She especially remembered my father. She was also surprised by my question, but she answered it. Then she said, “Are you and Nick friends?”

“He knows a lot about dogs,” I said. “People at the shelter really respect him.”

“Oh?” She sounded surprised. I thanked her for her time. Then I made one more phone call.

 

. . .

My father called me just before noon. He said he'd pick me up. I told him it was okay, I'd meet him at his place. I didn't tell him that I had to collect Nick's backpack from the closet where I'd left it.

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” my father said later, when I emerged from my room, “but isn't that the same backpack you had with you when I picked you up the day before yesterday?”

“Possibly,” I said.

He glanced at it again, but he didn't say another word about it.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to the curb in front of a large, rambling brick house on what looked like a regular residential street. Ed Jarvis was waiting for us inside.

“Thanks for bringing that over,” he said, nodding at the backpack. “Nick's been frantic. He thought he'd lost it.”

“I'd like to give it back to him myself,” I said. “If that's okay?”

Mr. Jarvis looked at my father. My father just shrugged.

“I'll have someone bring Nick down,” Mr. Jarvis said. “You can wait for him in the visiting room.”

 

. . .

I was sitting at a table in a room at the back of the house. One entire wall was glass, so I saw Nick as he approached with a man. Nick looked at me. He did not smile. He came into the room. The man who was with him stood out in the hall, watching.

“Mr. Jarvis said you have something for me,” he said.

I dropped his backpack onto the table. “You left it at the shelter the day you got arrested,” I said.

He grabbed it, opened it and rooted through it.

“Everything's there,” I said.

He zipped the pack closed again, slung it over his shoulder, and turned toward the door.

“I have a confession to make,” I said.

He turned back to me.

“You know that dog book that's in there? The one that Stella gave you? I read some of it.”

His eyes were hard on me, like he was trying to show me he didn't care about me or anything I had to say.

“It was really interesting,” I said. He didn't say anything.“I know a few things about dogs. But I didn't know a lot of the stuff in that book.”

No reaction. But then, I hadn't really expected one.

“For example,” I said,“I didn't know that some things that people eat can make dogs really sick. Onions and garlic, for example. They both contain a lot of sulfur. Sulfur destroys red blood cells in dogs. Did you know that?”

He just stared at me.

“Of course you did,” I said. “You underlined it in your book. Chocolate is bad for dogs too. It contains something called theobromine that can make dogs sick and even kill them. One single-serving regular chocolate bar contains enough theobromine to make a small dog very, very sick. And baking chocolate, you know, the kind used to make cakes and cookies, contains an even higher concentration. Baking chocolate can kill a dog.”

“I gotta go,” he said.

“Orion was sick last Sunday, Nick. Monday too.”

“So?”

“So he was sick because someone gave him chocolate cake.”

Still no reaction other than a frosty stare. I bet it had taken him years to perfect it.

“I saw cake crumbs and icing on his blanket, Nick. Chocolate cake and blue icing. Your aunt made your favorite cake for you on Saturday—double chocolate fudge. She wrote
Happy Birthday Nick
on it with blue icing.”

Nothing.

“You went up to the animal shelter on Saturday night, didn't you? You broke in, didn't you?”

He just stared at me. It was impossible to read what he was thinking.

“The thing that doesn't make sense is why you would feed Orion chocolate cake when you knew what it would do to him.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me.

“You know what I think, Nick? I think that when you told the police you hit that man with that car, you didn't know the whole story. I also think that when you said that you'd done it, no one saw any problem with that—not your aunt, not the police, not your lawyer, not even Antoine, who respects you. I mean, it's not like you're such a good guy, right, the kind of guy who never gets in trouble?”

That finally got a reaction. He glowered at me.

“But there was something that bothered me, Nick.”

I waited for him to ask what it was, but he didn't.

“If you wanted to go joyriding,” I said, “why did you go all the way across town to take a car? Why not find something closer to home? Closer to your aunt's home, I mean. Not closer to Joey's.”

Nothing.

“Because that's where the car was taken from,” I said. “Fifth and Main. I know the area. In fact, I had dinner at a restaurant near there not too long ago. It turns out that Joey and Angie live almost right across the street from the place.” Angie, the very pregnant young woman I had helped down off the bus the day I'd gone to meet Billy. Angie, who had sent Nick a birthday card. Angie, in the photo with Nick and Joey. “When's the baby due?” I said. “Is that why you gave Joey money? For the baby?”

Finally—a flicker of surprise.

“How did you get from your aunt's house to where you took the car, Nick?”

Of course he didn't answer.

“You must have taken the subway and then a bus, right? I mean, how else can you have gotten across town? You don't have a car. You don't even have a driver's license. You want to know how I figure it?”

It was like talking to stone.

“Your aunt goes to bed a little before 8:30. You wait fifteen minutes or so until you're sure she's settled in for the night. Then you slip out. You take the subway and the bus up to Fifth and Main and
borrow
a car. Am I right?”

No answer.

“The only trouble is, the timing doesn't work. At that time on a Saturday night, it takes at least forty-five minutes to get from your aunt's house all the way across town to where the car was taken. I know. I called the transit authority and checked.”

Nothing. No reaction.

“So say you left your aunt's house at 8:45, after you were pretty sure she was asleep. You couldn't have made it to the west end much before 9:30. But the accident happened at 9:40 back in your aunt's neighborhood. So you know what I wonder, Nick? I wonder how you got back so fast. That drive takes at least twenty minutes.”

“Maybe I left earlier,” he said.

“Right, you're that stupid. You slip out as soon as your aunt goes upstairs, and you just pray she won't notice.”

His eyes were blazing now, but he still didn't say a word.

“That's not the only thing that doesn't add up, Nick. The guy who saw you ditch the car said you were weaving all over the road, like maybe you were drunk. But you weren't, were you? You just don't know how to drive. So how did you get all the way across town in that car at all, let alone in half the time it would take someone who knew what they were doing? And how did you get up to the animal shelter? And don't tell me you weren't there. I know you were. The cake proves it. And you ditched the car relatively close—which is something else that's been bothering me. The man was hit at 9:40, but you didn't ditch the car until nearly 1:30. How come?”

No answer.

“When I ran into you outside my—outside your lawyer's office, you told me it was no big deal, that the guy you hit walked away. But he didn't walk away, Nick. He didn't even get up. He couldn't. That isn't what Joey told you, is it? Joey made it sound like it wasn't such a big deal, right?”

He finally cracked—a little.

“Joey's got nothing to do with this,” he said.

“Yeah? Well, I think he does. And I think you're covering for him. I don't know why. Maybe you think you owe him. Maybe you think this is no big deal for you, but it would be a much bigger deal for him. He's older. He's had his driver's license suspended, hasn't he?” I'd remembered what Nick had said when he'd used my phone to call Joey, and what Joey had said when I'd caught him at the fence with Nick. Joey had been waiting to get his license back.

Nick's façade slipped. Now he looked really surprised.

“A suspended license means that he's already been in big trouble. If you confessed to a hit-and-run while joyriding, you'd probably get some more time in custody. Maybe you'd get lucky. Maybe you'd serve your time at the group home. Maybe you wouldn't get locked up. But Joey's twenty. If he were to be convicted, he'd be locked up for sure. Especially if he was driving while his license was suspended. And if he's been involved in something like this before. Has he, Nick?”

He just looked at me.

“Except the guy died,” I said. “You could get worse now.”

He spun around and headed for the door.

“Fine,” I said, standing up. “You stick to your story, and I'll stick to mine. But you know what, Nick? The police are going to believe me, not you. You know why? Because I'm not a screw–up like you!”

He whirled back.

“Shut up,” he said. “Just shut up, okay?”

“No,” I said. “I'm going to tell them everything I know. And they're going to see that your story doesn't make sense. You can try to cover for Joey, but they're going to get him. Wait and see.”

His hands were clenched into fists now. I glanced at the man who was standing out in the hall. I don't think he could hear us, but he was watching Nick intently.

“Come on, Nick. Be smart,” I said. “You accepted responsibility for what happens to Orion. You can help him. You already have helped him, but he may not make it without you.

“You helped Antoine too. He told me. You stopped him from taking that money. But covering for Joey? He's going to be a father soon. He should be taking responsibility for himself. You're not helping him by letting him get away with it.”