Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (23 page)

That's the way I saw it, too—as life and death. Not mine—I wasn't actually too worried about that. I was worried about Lena. Now, believe me, I wasn't planning to be stupid. I was just planning to shadow that shady low-rider as far as I could, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he'd lead me to her.

By the time I got up to Morrison, he was almost out of view. Almost. Low-riders can't take bumps and dips very fast, and lucky for me, Morrison's full of speed bumps because it runs along the high school.

And I was already out of breath from charging up the hill from the fields, but I couldn't even
think
about slowing down now. If I did, I'd lose him. I took off down Morrison, running past the park and the back side of the fairgrounds, trying hard to keep the car in view.

Snake Eyes slowed
way
down when he got to the railroad tracks, then bumped over them and turned into a 7-Eleven parking lot. I moved in as close as I dared, then tucked myself behind an old pickup truck.

And I'd been trying to catch my breath for all of ten seconds when a bike skids to a stop beside me. My head snaps around and I can't believe my eyes. “Marissa!”

She yanks her bike between the truck and the car behind me, panting, “God … you run… fast.”

“What are you doing here? Aren't they going to let you play?”

“Mr. Caan forfeited the game.”

“What?” “I refused to play, and Dot said she wouldn't if I wouldn't, and Ms. Rothhammer said she wanted nothing to do with the mess they'd created.” She shrugs. “Mr. Caan didn't think Heather or the other subs should play, so he forfeited.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” she says with a grin. “Heather and Mr. Vince are in some real trouble, too.”

“It's about time.”

“Speaking of hot water … what are
you
up to?” “See that lowered car in the 7-Eleven parking lot?” “The blue one?” “Uh-huh. That's the carriage that whisked Babs to the mall.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And that,” I say as the front door swings open and the driver steps out, “is Snake Eyes.”

She watches him a minute. “He's … he's kind of
little
. I was expecting some sort of, you know, monster, or something.”

“You haven't seen him up close.”

The Gangster Girls pile out behind him, and as we watch them all head for the 7-Eleven door, Marissa says, “So what's the plan?”

I blink at her. “I can't believe you're up for this.”

She wraps her hair and stuffs it into her ball cap. “As long as we're not going to be
stupid
or anything…”

How in the world did I deserve a friend like Marissa McKenze? I smiled and said, “Cross my heart,” then looked around. “Can you leave your bike somewhere? I think we'll be able to move around better without it.”

She nods at a railroad-crossing sign behind us. “I'll lock it to the pole. And here,” she says, peeling my backpack off from over hers, “you can carry your own now.”

I strapped it on. “Thanks.”

Snake Eyes came out while Marissa was locking up her bike. “Duck!” I whispered, and she scurried back to where I was.

We watched the Gangster Girls pile in through the passenger door while Snake Eyes slowly scanned the area, from his left shoulder clear around to his right. Like he was an alien taking in information. Processing it.

Then suddenly he holds real still and sniffs the air. Slowly. Like he's smelling something suspicious.

He squints around from side to side again, then finally slides in through the driver's-side door.

I whisper, “He is the single creepiest person I have ever met,” and Marissa nods, saying, “I'm beginning to get the picture.”

Snake Eyes pulls out of the parking lot and starts back in our direction, but then turns before the railroad tracks and heads north.

“You ready?”

Marissa gives a small nod.

“Let's go.”

We stalked the stalker for about five blocks, and even though he was just cruising along, it was really hard to keep up—especially since we were trying not to be seen. And pretty soon we found ourselves in an area where a lot of houses had boarded-up windows or burglar bars. Plus, there was graffiti everywhere—on garbage cans, on old cars, on telephone poles and stop signs; in some places it even covered whole sides of buildings and fences. No paint-over patches like you see downtown. No, there was no ignoring it—we were in occupied territory.

“Okay,” Marissa pants as Snake Eyes disappears around another corner. “I think we've taken this far enough.”

“He can't be going much farther—he's making too many turns. Come on, just one more block?”

Marissa grumbles something about me needing a new definition for stupid, but she runs with me to the next intersection anyway. And the minute we turn the corner, I skid to a stop and yank Marissa down behind a chalky orange Mazda. Snake Eyes has pulled up in front of a dilapidated house across the street, his car facing the wrong direction.

Marissa tries to bolt, but I hold her down while she yanks on my arm, saying, “What if he saw us?”

“He
will
see you if you run now. Just sit still a minute!” Snake Eyes doesn't get out of the car, but the Camo-butt Queen does. She folds the passenger seat forward and lets the Quiet One out. They exchange nods, then Camo Butt gets back in and the car pulls away.

“Now what?” Marissa whispers.

The truth is, I didn't know what. We couldn't go forward
or
back until Snake Eyes' little homegirl went inside the house. But she
didn't
go inside. She watched the car go down the block, then just sat down on the stoop with her head in her hands.

“Darn!” I said as Snake Eyes' car disappeared around a corner. “He's getting away…!”

Then a screen door slams closed behind us, and when we whip around, we see two boys coming toward us, looking at us like we're stealing the flat tires off their Mazda. The smaller one's not wearing shoes, and the bigger one's not wearing a shirt.

I put my hands out like, See? No tools. Only they keep coming.

“Wha's up?” the smaller one says.

Now, these kids are maybe eight and ten—young. And I'm about to shoo them off with, Oh, we're just waiting for a friend, when I see something I can almost not believe—they're flashing South West signs.

Then I look in their eyes and see it—a flicker of the ice that's on fire in Snake Eyes' eyes. And I want to ask them, Why? Why are you
doing
this?

Shirtless says, “You down or what?” and from the palm of his hand a switchblade flicks open.

I look at Marissa and she's all bug-eyed, so I turn back to them and smile. “Hey, chill. We just playin' with our homegirl, is all.”

“Who. Who you playin' with.”

“Sssh!” I tell him, trying to act like I'm cool with
what's going on. “Ain't you never played hide-'n'-seek before?”

“Dang,” says the little one. “You dumb.”

“Yeah,” says his brother. Then he calls, “Yo!” across the street.

Marissa cringes and looks at me like she's going to cry. I signal for her to stay calm, but there's the Quiet One across the street, standing up saying, “Hey, Jon-Jon. Wassup?”

“They over here!” Jon-Jon tells her, pointing at us behind the car.

“Who?” she asks, coming forward.

I'm racking my brains, trying to remember what her real name is—trying to picture what I'd written down for Officer Borsch. Then it clicks—Sonja. Sonja Ibarra. So I stand up and say, “You're no fun,” to the boys, then wave across the street. “Hey, Sonja. How's it goin'?”

At first she doesn't recognize us. But as we move at her across the street, her eyes widen and her mouth drops. And I almost don't know what to do next because she doesn't look mad or like she's going to kick my tush.

She looks scared.

“Go on, go
on
,” I say over my shoulder to the baby bangers. “We're cool, go on home.”

The bigger one folds up his switchblade and slips it in his baggies, then takes off, his little brother tagging along behind him.

Sonja's eyes are huge, and she's looking down the street the way Snake Eyes' car had gone, then back
at us like
we've
got switchblades. “Why you here?” she whispers.

“Turnabout's fair play, right?”

“What?”

“You followed me….” I shrugged. “I followed you.”

“But …” She looks around frantically. “No way you want to be here!”

Now it's weird. This gangbanger's acting like a skittery little mouse. She whispers, “He's looking everywhere for you! I was hoping you'd left town or something!”

“Left town? I'm thirteen! I can't just leave town.”

She waves us through a patch of thorny weeds, right to the stoop of a patched-up back door. And at first it looks like she's going to want us to follow her inside, and there's no
way
I'm doing that, but then she slumps down on the stoop, crying. “I just want out! Out of this place, out of this life!”

I squat beside her and whisper, “Then get out! You're old enough, right?”

“You don't get it! Once you're in, you can't get out! Look at Lena!
That's
what happens when you try to break out!”

Ice trickled down my spine. “What happened to Lena?”

She flicks tears off her cheeks. “He's gonna kill her. I swear to God, he's gonna kill her.”

“But he … he hasn't yet?”

She shrugs. “He don't tell me that stuff, and I don't want to know. He just told me to find
you
.”

“But why?”

“You got the baby!” “But I don't! Not anymore.”

It's like she didn't hear me. She hugs her knees again. “He'll track you down until he's got Lena
and
the baby.”

“But why?”

“Because she humiliated him! She was
his
, you get it? You can't just take up with someone else!”

“Sonja,” I whisper, “where is she? Where's he got her?”

She just shakes her head.

“Well, if you don't want to tell me, then call the police. You don't have to give your name, just tell them what you know!”

“You don't get it, girl, 'cause you don't live this life.” She starts sobbing. “The way it is, is, either you die or I die. There's no in between!”

That makes me back up. But then I take a deep breath and squat down again, saying, “It doesn't have to be that way! We'll help you.”

She looks at me like I'm crazy. “You can't help me!”

“Really, we will. Why don't you come with us? We don't have to tell anyone where we're going.”

“I didn't want this! None of it! I just wanted family. Friends I could count on. I thought it'd be like the team, only with protection twenty-four-seven, you know?”

The team? Then I remembered—her softball picture in the high school yearbook.

“God, every time I see a game I just want to die. I miss it so bad.”

That must have hit home with Marissa, because she squats next to me and says, “Come on. We'll help you, I promise!”

She stands up. “You don't know what you're askin' me to do!”

“You'll be saving her life!” I whisper, “Sonja, please! Put yourself in Lena's shoes!”

She yanks the back door open. “If I turn on Caesar, that's
just
where I'll be!”

“Caesar? I thought his name was Raymond.”

She freezes for a second, then whispers, “Oh, Jesus,” and shuts the door in my face.

“Let's go,” Marissa says, tugging on my shirt.

I practically stomped my foot. “Why won't she
do
something?”

“She's scared, Sammy, and badgering her isn't going to change anything.” She pulls on me harder. “Get away from there, would you?”

“But —”

“Get
away
from there!” She yanks me off the stoop. “What if she's calling that creep right now?”

That got me moving. “She did say Caesar, didn't she?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think that's his street name?”

“Maybe. Sure. Fine. Now could you move a little faster?”

“Maybe he thinks he's king or something. You know, like Julius Caesar?”

“Sounds good, now come
on
.”

“Hey! Remember how Babs said that hood ornament was a gladiator in a chariot or something?”

“You're right, Sammy, that all makes sense, now step it up!”