You Can Run (12 page)

“Beej?” he said. He looked confused when she continued to back away. He followed her gaze to the pictures on the table and his eyes went wide. “Hey, Beej!”

She turned and ran out of the restaurant. Nick got up and raced after her. They had both vanished by the time I got outside. I stood there and waited for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, sure that Nick would come back. He didn't.

 

. . .

I was sitting in the living room area of my father's place when he got home. He looked mildly surprised to see me.

“Did you have a fight with your mother?” he said.

“No. Why?”

“I know that face, Robbie. Something's wrong.”

I gave him the envelope of photographs that Carl Hanover had left with me. Delivering them was one of the reasons I had come to my father's place.

He glanced at the photos. “You sure everything is okay between you and your mother?”

“Dad, I already told you. We didn't have a fight.”

“So she's okay then, right? Because it sure looked like something was bothering her the other night.”

“She's fine,” I said. And then I couldn't help it: I looked away from him, just for a split second. He caught it—he always catches it—and he knew what it meant. But he didn't say anything, I think because he understood that I had promised to respect my mother's privacy.

“So if it's not about your mother,” he said, “what is bothering you, Robbie?” He looked genuinely concerned. When I still didn't say anything, he didn't push me. Instead, he said, “It's getting late. Are you hungry? I'm going to start dinner.”

He went into the kitchen. I trailed after him and watched him stare into the fridge. “How about an omelet?” he said. “Salad on the side? Toast, lightly browned, just the way you like it?” He pulled out eggs, mushrooms, and cheese.

“It's Nick,” I said finally.

“Oh.” He didn't sound surprised.

“You've heard something about him, haven't you, Dad? I can tell by the way you act every time I mention him.”

My father set everything down on the counter and turned to look at me. He seemed so serious all of a sudden that it scared me. “I don't know much, Robbie,” he said. “I just heard it hasn't been smooth sailing for him lately.”

“What do you mean? What did you hear?”

“You know I like Nick, don't you, Robbie? He's done some pretty stupid things, but I think that he's a decent kid. You know that, right?”

I said I did, but I was getting a queasy feeling in my stomach.

“And I know you like him. Maybe a lot. But you also know enough about his background, and about his”— he hesitated—“his problems to know that sometimes Nick makes things harder on himself than they need to be.”

I couldn't stand it anymore. “What did you hear, Dad? Does it have anything to do with a guy named Glen?”

“Nick told you about him?”

“I met him,” I said. “I told Nick if I were him, I'd call the cops on Glen.”

A strange expression appeared on my father's face. “Robbie,” he said, “Glen is the cops. That's how I heard.”

“I met him, Dad. Well, sort of. That guy's a cop?”

“Patrol officer,” my father said. “A good one too.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That things aren't going so well between Nick and his aunt. And that Nick may not be able to live with her when he finishes at Somerset. He may have to live in a group home. Nick hasn't had a lot of stability in his life in the past few years, Robbie. Maybe he doesn't know how to handle it.”

“According to Glen,” I said.

“Robbie—”

“Did he tell you he hurt Nick?”

My father frowned. “Hurt him? How?”

“They got into some kind of fight. Nick's arm is badly sprained.” I caught a look on my father's face. “What?”

“Nick and Glen got into a fight?” he said. I nodded. “Who started it?”

“I don't know.”

“For all you know, it could have been Nick.”

“Dad!” I couldn't believe he was blaming Nick.

“All I'm saying, Robbie, is that there are two sides to every story, and we don't know what those two sides are. But I do know that Glen Ross is a well-respected police officer and that Nick is a kid who has trouble keeping a grip on his temper. Robbie.” His voice became softer now. “When I said I like Nick, I meant it. I think he's got a lot of potential.”

“Potential?”

“But I also think you should be careful.”

“Careful? Of what? You think Nick would ever hurt me?”

“Physically?” My father looked surprised. “No. But I think he could break your heart.”

Why was he telling me that? Did he feel the same way as my mother did? Did he wish I'd go out with someone more. . . normal? And why was he so quick to believe that Nick was the problem instead of this cop?

“I'm not telling you not to see Nick,” my father said. “I'm not saying he will hurt you. And I'm not lying when I say I like him. If I could think of some way to help him, I'd do it. I'm just saying that I think you should be careful. You're my daughter. I love you. I don't want to see you hurt. Okay?”

I said okay even though I didn't feel okay about it. I let him cajole me into helping him make dinner. While he cooked the omelet, I made the salad. But the whole time, I was thinking about Nick—about what kind of problems he was having with his aunt, about how much those problems had to do with Glen. I was worried about him. He'd been trying so hard to turn things around, and he really deserved to have something good happen to him. I wanted him to be happy for a change.

I put my thoughts aside when my father and I sat down to eat. I felt I'd heard enough of my father's feelings on the subject of Nick. Instead I asked him about Carmine Doig.

“Did you find out anything?” I said.

“You mean, was it really an accident?” He shrugged and took a bite of toast. “The police are going by the fire investigation report, which says it was accidental. So as far as the police are concerned, it's case closed. I can't press the lead investigator for any details because he's dead. I've been trying to get the insurance company to take another look at it. They paid out a lot of money. But they won't even talk to me. They're stonewalling me.”

I was surprised to hear that. “Mom always says you could get a confession out of a priest,” I said.

“I could if he didn't have a grudge against me,” my father said. “I've had some dealings with the guy who's in charge. Let's just say that the only thing he'd be willing to do for me is send flowers to my funeral.”

“It sounds to me like you're not satisfied with either the report or the way the insurance company handled the claim,” I said.

“Something's not right about the way it happened,” my father said.

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of owners board their horses at Doig's stables. Five horses died in the fire. Fifteen were rescued.” He took another bite of toast. “Fourteen of the fifteen that were rescued belonged to other owners. Four of the five that died belonged to Carmine Doig.”

“So?”

“So, there's stable hand who lives in a cabin at the end of the property. He said he was asleep when the fire started. He said by the time he reached the stable, the fire was blazing and there was smoke everywhere.”

“With all those horses, didn't they have a sprinkler system or something?”

“They did,” my father said. “But it was undergoing routine maintenance. In fact, the fire investigator's report says that the fire started because of a short in some of the equipment that the repair guys had left in the stables.”

“What about the fire alarm?”

“The alarm went off. Besides the stables and the stable hand's cabin, there's a house on the property—a sort of country manor. The Doig family uses it sometimes. Sometimes the horses' owners stay there too. There's a permanent housekeeper. He was there that night. He's the one who called the fire department. But the place is way out in the country. The closest fire department is twelve miles away and it's volunteer-run. They know what they're doing, but it takes time. While they were waiting for the fire truck to show up, the stable hand said he started to get the horses out.”

“Don't you believe him?”

“I asked him why he didn't start by evacuating Doig's horses. After all, Doig's his employer. He said they were kept at the far end of the stable and that he assumed the trainer was taking care of them.”

I repeated my question.

“I asked him if he actually saw the trainer. He said it was dark and confusing. There were skittish horses everywhere. And a lot of smoke. And people who weren't doing much good—a horse owner and his wife who were visiting from Florida, the manager of one of Doig's construction companies. They had no idea how to handle panicky horses. The stable hand said all he could think about was getting as many animals out as possible, and that's what he did. The police talked to the guy. So did the fire investigator. So did the insurance adjuster.”

“Insurance adjuster?”

“The person who has final say on an insurance claim, who decides whether the insurance company will pay the claim and how much they'll pay.”

“And? Did the stable hand tell different stories to different people?”

“I know what he said to the police and to the fire investigator. I've seen the reports. I'm not so sure what he said to the insurance adjuster, but I don't see why it would be any different.”

I didn't get it. “So that's good, right?”

“It is if it's the truth.” He took a bite of omelet.

“What part don't you believe?” I said.

“I'm not sure,” he said. “To be honest, I'm not even sure he's lying. It's not so much what he said that bothers me. It's how he told it. He seemed awfully nervous for a guy who was telling the same story for the fifth time.”

The buzzer for the downstairs door sounded. My father got up to answer it. This time I recognized the voice when I heard it: Carl Hanover. My father gave me a look that told me he was sorry for the interruption. Then he pushed the button and told Mr. Hanover to come up.

I don't think it would be possible for a person to look more upset than Carl Hanover did when he came through the door.

“I'm sorry, Mac,” he said. “I should have called first. But I was in the neighborhood and, well, I just can't seem to concentrate on anything.”

My father told him not to worry and offered him a cup of coffee. Mr. Hanover sat at the table while my dad went to get him a mug. He looked at me with red, watery eyes that made me think the poor guy hadn't slept in days.

My father put some coffee in front of him and said, “I wish I could tell you I've made progress, Carl, but the truth is, I haven't. I checked with her bank to see if Trisha has used her credit card. She hasn't. I went around to all the places you said she frequents—the mall, the library, the park down by the lake. No one remembers anyone who fits her description. I've also talked to taxi drivers, mail carriers, bus drivers. Nobody's seen her. So either she's not in the downtown area or she's really lying low.”

The longer my father talked, the more Mr. Hanover shrank in his chair. He wrapped both hands around the mug of steaming coffee. I wondered how my father might look if I vanished. I decided he'd look a lot like Mr. Hanover. I also wondered what it must be like to
be
Mr. Hanover—to have a stepdaughter who had never accepted him and a wife who was sick, and to know that it was physically hurting his wife that her daughter had run away.

“Robyn has been asking around school, but she's drawn a blank too, haven't you, Robbie?” my father said.

I hadn't told my father yet about Kenny Merchant. I hadn't told him about Beej's reaction when she saw Trisha's picture either. I told myself that it was because there was really nothing to tell. But that wasn't quite true. Mostly I'd been thinking about what Nick had said to me: You have to respect people's reasons for doing what they do. It was up to Trisha to decide if and when she went home. I thought about what Nick had said about me and my parents, how my home life was so different from his own, from Kenny's, from Beej's. And, maybe, from Trisha's.

I also thought about Nick telling Kenny,
You push around my girlfriend, it's my business.
Then I thought about Nick telling me that even if he knew where Trisha was, he probably wouldn't tell me. In other words, Nick didn't completely trust me. Not yet. Maybe never, if I said anything to my father or Mr. Hanover.

“Robbie?” my father said. “I said you didn't come up with anything at school. That right?”

“That's right,” I said. But I made the same mistake I had made earlier. I forgot who I was talking to. Instead of looking my father straight in the eye, I looked down at my plate. When I looked up again, my father was staring at me. Mr. Hanover caught the look.

“If you know anything, Robyn,” Carl Hanover said, “or if you know anyone who might know anything, if you even
suspect
that someone knows where she might be, I'd appreciate knowing.” He looked at my father, who, in turn, looked at me.

“Robbie?”

“If anyone knows anything, they're not telling me,” I said. And because that was true, I could meet my father's eyes. He sat back in his chair, and Carl Hanover looked disappointed. My father kept his eyes steady on me. He didn't argue with me, he didn't push me anymore, but I knew that he wasn't one hundred percent satisfied with my answer.

“Maybe you should try the police again, Carl.”

Mr. Hanover shook his head. “I thought about stopping by to see them on my way over here. But they just keep telling us the same thing—she's old enough to leave home, if that's what she wants.”