Who I'm Not (12 page)

Even if I had cash covered, I still needed a way to move. I was past daydreaming about crossing the lake. No buses stopped in Port Hope. There were only two trains a day, and they were both at times when everyone would notice I was gone. That left Mr. Hunter's car. His keys were always in that jacket draped over his chair at Open Book. He parked his blue Lumina behind the building. I'd done some driving with Harley, on backroads where no one would notice.

Now that I had the bank card, the plan was simple. Pick a day, leave a note for Shan saying I was going to be late, scoop Hunter's keys, hit the bank and then the road. Hunter would still be handing out workbooks to stoners. Shan wouldn't wonder about me until I was long gone. I figured I could make it the thirty miles to a commutertrain station, ditch the car and hop the train to Toronto, then take a night bus to the border.

Planning it was one thing. Doing it was another. I was tied up in knots. One minute I'd be sweating to get away, the next I'd decide to tough it out. I kept going past Griffin's place. It didn't help. Finally, I gave myself until Thursday. If Griffin hadn't made a move by then, I'd be gone.

There was another reason I was tied up in knots. Every time I went past Griffin's place, I went past Gillian's too. I told myself I stayed in Port Hope because she was my good luck. At Open Book now, I'd pretend to read
The Hobbit
when I was really watching her wrists, looking for those scars. She always wore tops with extra-long sleeves, though, sometimes with bracelets underneath, and she'd nip at the ends of her sleeves with her fingers as she bent over her workbook, tugging like a puppy worrying a bone. If she'd really tried to off herself because of her old man, I didn't know what to think.

It had been a long time since leaving someone had made me feel anything. I knew people were supposed to get all torn up about it, like Gillian had with her dad, but I was way past letting myself do that. You didn't do that and survive the Bad Time. Sometimes I'd have a kind of empty feeling and realize I'd been thinking about Harley, but it was easy to make sure that was as far as it got. I had enough to think about in the here and now. And if I could keep out thoughts of Harley—and he'd never even done anything bad to me—I could keep out almost anything. That was the safe way.

If I could block out Harley, I could block out Gillian. Thursday came and nothing had changed. It had to be, then. I scooped socks and underwear from my dresser drawer and stuck them in my pack. I had my jacket and Danny's ID and the bank card. I left the note for Shan.

I put in the morning at Open Book somehow. Mr. Hunter's jacket hung on the back of his chair like always. You could see the lump of his keys in one pocket. I had a handful of rocks I'd gathered down at the river to replace them with. Gillian worked across from me all morning. I slouched behind my book, waiting. The room would empty at noon. I'd tell Gillian I'd catch up to her after I went to the bank. She'd head out, Hunter would duck down the hall to take a leak…it was a piece of cake, and I was freaking.

Gillian looked up at me. “What's with you?”

“Nothing.”

She said, “People are coming to look at our house tonight.”

“That's good, isn't it?”

She shrugged. “I guess. It's weird.”

“You want to move, don't you?” I needed her to say it.

She looked at me. She bit her upper lip and tugged her sleeves some more. She said, “My mom went on a tidying binge last night. Now I'm supposed to cut the grass after school.”

That was all it took. “You need a hand?”

She smiled. Everything in me unwound. Maybe I couldn't block her out. Maybe I didn't want to.

The lawn hadn't been cut in a long time. The front yard was all sloped, and the back was even steeper— it was terraced into four sections. You did the cutting there with an old mower that had yellow ropes attached so you could lower it down. I did the cutting, and Gillian used an electric weed whipper to trim. The air was cool, but I was sweating.

There were trees at the bottom of the yard. Beyond them was the back of another property. The house there had a patio door that opened to a weathered deck with an old gas barbecue, a glass-topped table with an umbrella and two chairs with matching cushions, all faded. The first few leaves had already turned. I worked my way down, then dragged the mower across the bottom patch of lawn. I was panting when I bent to shut off the engine. Silence rushed in. I listened to it. A bird flapped and squawked. Then I heard the scrape of a patio door opening and footsteps on planking. I looked up. Griffin was standing on his deck, looking as worn as his furniture. “It's time to talk,” he said.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The silver Camry was parked a little ways up the main street. Griffin was in the front booth in Demetri's restaurant, the way he'd said he'd be. His hands were flat on the table, a mug of black coffee between them. I slung my backpack into the other seat and perched across from him, close to the aisle.

The place was almost empty; it was way past lunch and too early for dinner. A blond waitress with a cloth fanny pack full of little milk and cream containers came to take my order. I asked for a glass of water. She looked at Griffin. “Need a top-up there, Gord?”

He levered one hand up off the table like a little drawbridge. “I'm good.”

We sat there, looking at each other. Maybe it sounds strange, but finally having something happen felt good, almost. Now I did my best to look worried and confused, eyebrows together, leaning forward as if I wanted to help. I'd done this a million times in the Bad Time. I could do it again. Besides, it was better to find out what he knew and what he wanted. Then I could decide how to play him.

It looked as if the waiting had gotten to Griffin too. In the brightness from the window his face was half in shadow and half lit, rutted and tired. He hadn't shaved; silver stubble gleamed on his jowls. The cuffs of his Windbreaker were grubby. His hands looked huge on the table, the fingers thick and blunt. The first two fingers on his right hand were stained yellow from his cigarettes. He didn't wear any rings. “What do you want?” I said.

“Your help,” he said.

“My help? With what?”

“An investigation.”

“I thought you were retired,” I said. I hoped “investigation” wasn't going to turn out to be pervy cop talk for sex. He didn't look like the type, but then they never do.

“I've got one case still open,” Griffin said.

The waitress brought my water. I waited for her to leave before I talked. “Why do you want me to help you? Why should I? I don't think you even like me.”

“You did your reading?”

“I looked at the stupid book. I get it. You don't think I'm Danny.” I shook my head as if I couldn't believe it.

Griffin said, “I don't know who you are, and I don't care.”

“You know who I am,” I said. I pitched my voice high. “I'm Danny.”
It's not what you say, it's how you say it. Never change your story.

“No you're not. I lived with him in my head for months. You're not him.”

If this was the best he could do, I was laughing. I looked around, made a face. “Well, sorry I don't match your dreams. My family knows me. I don't know what else I can tell you.”

“You've told me more than enough already.” Griffin cocked an eyebrow. “You're good,” he said, “really good, but you push it, you know? It was the bit about your eyes tipped me. I knew it, but I double-checked anyway. You can't change eye color. If you're interested, here's some info on it.” He reached down to the seat beside him and tossed a file folder onto the table.

I ignored it. “Then how come mine got changed?” I said.

“Because you're a liar. And you're not Danny.”

“I wasn't lying. I told you what they did to me. Maybe they know a little more than you do. Maybe things have—have
changed
since you retired. And they did stuff to my hands too, remember? Just like
you
said.” I waved my hands, doing exasperation.

Griffin nodded. We could have been chewing the fat about the weather. “You liked that, didn't you? I could see you go for it, and you didn't push it quite as hard—it was a good play. Except if they'd altered your prints, you would have had sore feet. You didn't say anything about that.”

Now I
was
confused. “What?”

“The only known case of surgically altered prints came from down your way, bud. Tucson, Arizona. A doctor grafted skin from a guy's heels onto his fingers. The poor bastard could barely walk after.”

I swore to myself and took a drink of water to stall. I could feel sweat starting to run under my T-shirt. “Then I don't know. Maybe they just tried. They had me all drugged up. It doesn't matter, does it? You said yourself there aren't any prints to check.”

“Maybe I lied. Maybe I'll just take that glass after you're finished and have it checked.”

I slid it across the table to him. It was all I could do. “Take it right now, for all I care.”

The big hands didn't move. “If I do, it won't be for the prints. I didn't lie about those. Kids' prints don't last.” The eyebrow cocked again. “But there'll be a nice DNA sample there on the rim. That should be easy enough to check against someone in the family.”

I shut down my move to grab back the glass. It was only a twitch, but he saw it—I know he did. “See? You're good,” Griffin said, “and you're also a heartless little prick.”

“All I can tell you is what they did to me.”
Never change your story.

He blinked once, a lazy snake. “And all I can tell you is what you've done and what's going to happen to you. Leaving aside how you've abused Shannon and her family's trust and emotions, you're up to your neck in it. Fraud, perjury on your statement, probable larceny and possession of false documents. Oh, and manslaughter. Murder, if they can prove intent.”

“
What
?”

“There was a guy chasing you in that Tucson parking lot. You and your traveling buddy Davidson had keygamed him, remember?”

Fat Boy. I flashed on him, purple-faced and panting. I shook my head as if I was mystified. Griffin said, “He had a heart attack. He died a couple of days later. Tuscon coppers didn't follow up because of all the sympathy for you, acting under duress and all. When I show them you're a fake, they're going to love the chance to get you back, especially if you can't prove you're a minor.”

The sweat was pouring now. I could feel my face burning. He had to be bluffing. “I don't believe you,” I said. It sounded strangled.

Griffin shrugged and went on. “And then there's the big picture. You've crossed the border under false pretenses. These days, they're going to think terrorism. I'm guessing everybody's going to want you—FBI, Homeland Security, our RCMP…”

My feet started bouncing under the table. I couldn't cave. I wouldn't cave, ever, to guys like Griffin. I shook my head slowly, getting my breathing under control. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because somebody did something to Danny Dellomondo.”

“To me! Somebody did something to me!”

He still didn't move. “To Danny.”

“Then look at this.” I went for angry. “Who else is gonna have this?” I yanked open my backpack and fumbled through the socks I'd tossed in. The broken neck chain with the letter
D
was in them. I don't know why I thought of it. I didn't even really think it would do much good, except I knew I had to change the pace, throw him off. I tossed it on the table. “Who else is gonna have this, huh?”

Griffin looked at it, then his eyes darted back up to me. No more lazy snake. But no little cloud of confusion either. I cursed inside. “Where'd you get it?” he said.

“I've always had it. It's mine. The fastener got broken a long time ago.”

“All these years?”

“All these years. Like a lucky charm. It was all I had left.”

“You didn't have it in Tucson.”

“Who says?”

“They inventoried everything you had.”

“So?” I shrugged. “It was under my insole. They didn't look.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“It was a birthday present.”

“It was a Christmas present.”

“How do you know?” I gave him the Danny sneer.

“That's what the family told me. Danny was wearing it when he disappeared.”

For the first time in weeks, I flashed on what I'd memorized back in Josh's office.
Blue puffy vest…purple and black backpack…gold chain with the letter
D
around my neck…
and for a half beat I thought I had him. “So, what more do you
want
?”

“I want Danny and you're not him.” He did the blink again. “Which means, whoever gave this to you knows what happened to him.
Comprendez
?”

That's when I stopped breathing.

“Now stop shitting me,” Griffin said. “You're not an idiot. You know this is murder, and it always has been. You've walked right into the middle of it.”

He didn't move. I couldn't.

TWENTY-EIGHT

All I could do was stick with it.
Never change your story.
“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm alive and I'm here.”

“Give it up,” Griffin said. “We're past this. Danny's dead. He's been dead for three years.”

“Oh, that's why I've been away. I forgot.”

“He never went away. Ty killed him and said Danny hadn't come home, to cover his ass. When Ty's really flying, he's a violent guy. He'd beaten on all of them before. That's why Danny was in foster care—or had you forgotten that part?

“Riiiight,” I said. “So why didn't you nail him, great detective?”