Finders Keepers, page 8
"Bus number fifteen?" he asked.
"Yeah," Worlie replied.
"Anybody see you in the parking lot?"
Worlie nodded. "There were a lot of parents dropping kids off and walking little kids to school," he said. "But I don't think anyone noticed me."
"Good."
"Peachy keen," added Sickler.
Truax engaged the ignition with a screwdriver and the engine of the green Ford Taurus sprang to life.
"Let's get out of here," Truax said. The stolen car had been parked three blocks from the school, but Truax wasn't taking any chances. They planned on returning later that afternoon to follow bus number fifteen until it dropped the blond kid at his home.
***
He called me his girlfriend.
To say Lacey Mauer was thrilled over the remark would have been a colossal understatement. However, her happiness was tempered somewhat by the end of first period when Miss Hoedeman distributed the corrected science tests from the previous day. James Richard with his perfect paper had received the only perfect score. Lacey had one wrong and three unanswered questions and earned a B-plus.
James Richard patted her on the shoulder and said, "Nice try, Lace."
Lacey was so angry at his smart-aleck remark that she almost decked him right there. Later, she wondered if it was possible to remain James Richard's girlfriend if she got better grades than he did. Would he become jealous? It hadn't been a problem in the past, but they were getting older now. Her pride and competitive spirit silenced the debate. Also, something her father once told her: "If you hide your intelligence so people will like you, one day you'll find that the only people who like you are stupid." She vowed to out-do him the next time around. If he didn't like it, tough!
***
Stop and start. Stop and start. Truax was making himself sick as he followed the school bus along its tangled route, dropping kids at their front door. Sickler, too, complained about motion sickness. But complaining wasn't all he did. Opening his window and hanging out in case he threw up. Only Worlie seemed immune, largely because he was too frightened to be sick. For nearly a half hour they had followed the school bus and it had yet to deposit a thirteen-year-old blond kid, any thirteen year-old blond kid, anywhere. He was afraid of what his partners might do to him.
Finally the bus was empty. The driver found a busy thoroughfare and headed for the yard. Truax stopped following. He parked the car and turned in his seat to face Worlie.
"Well, what about it?" Truax asked.
"I don't understand," said Worlie.
"I understand," said Sickler angrily. "You messed up again"
"This is the bus," insisted Worlie. "Bus number fifteen. I'm telling you, it's the right bus."
"You idiot!" screamed Sickler. He followed with a whole lot more insults, most of them laced with obscenities. Worlie lashed back, just as loudly and with equal profanity. Truax, his contempt for his partners at an all-time high, refused to join in. Instead, he stared out the front windshield. He thought that he was working much harder for his share of the armored truck loot than he had expected to. He thought that both of his partners were seriously deranged and the sooner he was rid of them the better. Mostly he thought about the night Fast Eddie stole their money and how the kid came to get his hands on it in the first place.
Truax listened to his partners trade insults and threats until they were out of breath. Finally, he said, "Know something guys, I think we've been going about this all wrong."
***
James Richard had been late leaving the library and for a few anxious moments, he was afraid he had missed the bus. Only there it was, bearing down on him, its bright lights offering an inviting refuge against the cool, lonely night.
He boarded, paid his fare and moved toward an empty seat in the back, using the hand railings for support, the bus swaying like the deck of a ship beneath his feet. He had just reached his seat when the bus stopped again. It had traveled only one block. A young man with short brown hair slowly boarded the bus and carefully looked over the dozen passengers until he spotted James Richard. He turned away, found a seat and fixed his gaze out the window. He did not look James Richard's way again.
But James Richard couldn't keep his eyes off of him. It was the man from the gym, he was convinced of it. The same man he had seen at the apple orchard; who had attempted to follow him and his mother.
Who was he?
What did he want?
Why was he following me?
Was it the money?
Questions flooded James Richard's brain, yet no answers were forthcoming.
James Richard's hands began to sweat. He rubbed them on his thighs, partly to dry them and party to keep them from shaking. It was an effort to breathe normally, his pulse rate rose impossibly high.
Maybe the man would get off the bus, James Richard told himself. He prayed that he would. Only with each stop, his prayers went unanswered. James Richard began to fear the man would not leave until he did. Then what?
James Richard's nervousness left his hands and traveled to his legs. Both were quivering. Beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck and under his arms.
Think, think, think, James Richard told himself, tapping his forehead with each think like he was Winnie the Pooh. Like the bear, his brain started to feel fluffy. He remembered what the cop said, the one who came to the school and lectured the students about safety. Stay in well-lighted areas. Travel where there were plenty of people. It occurred to James Richard that he was in no danger as long as he remained on the bus. The man wouldn't dare try anything around so many witnesses.
James Richard's confidence increased with that realization. He devised a plan.
It's simple, he told himself. He would signal for his usual stop. If the man rose when he did, James Richard would sit back down. Oops, sorry, made a mistake. If the man sat down, too, then James Richard would know for a fact he was being followed and report it to the bus driver. Tell him that the man was stalking him for some ungodly reason and would he please use his radio to notify the police while he waited right there in the seat next to him. Simple.
Once he had a plan, James Richard began to relax. His legs stopped shaking and his heart beat returned to something close to normal.
Pleased with himself, James Richard waited. The street name changed from University Avenue to Lincoln Parkway and the bright lights of the city gave way to the comparative darkness of the suburb. Miles passed. Finally, his stop loomed ahead of him like a challenge.
With a deep breath and a barely audible, "Here goes," James Richard rose from his seat. He pulled the cord to signal his departure. A sound like a small bell tinkled in the bus driver's ear and he automatically began to slow his speed. James Richard fixed his eyes on the back of the young man's head. The man did not move, did nothing to acknowledge that he knew James Richard was moving.
The bus slowed.
Stopped.
The back door whooshed opened.
James Richard stood at the top step watching the young man.
The young man stayed seated.
James Richard's heart suddenly seemed too big for his chest as he jumped down the steps. The door closed behind him and the bus rumbled on, picking up speed.
James Richard slung his backpack over his shoulders and prepared to run. If the bus even looked like it was going to stop at the next block, he was gone. Fast. The bus did not stop though. James Richard watched as its taillights disappeared from view.
He laughed at himself.
He called himself paranoid.
He jogged happily the entire two blocks to his home.
Two men sitting silently in a dark green Ford Taurus watched his progress with great interest. The one behind the steering wheel took careful note of the address of the huge, white house that James Richard unlocked with a key he wore on a chain around his neck.
"When the time comes, we'll take him here," said Truax under his breath.
Back to TOC
CHAPTER TEN
James Richard pushed his lunch tray away. Chicken patty sandwich, shredded lettuce, broccoli and cheese sauce, banana, orange cream bar. How could something that sounded so good on the monthly menu turn out to be so crummy? The chicken was dry, the bun soggy, the lettuce wilted, the broccoli, they didn't actually expect people to eat that stuff did they?
"Two more days," James Richard told himself.
In two days, his mother would be able to quit her night job. Then she would have the time to make his lunch when the school menu called for it, like she did in the days BD - Before Divorce. Thin-sliced, home-cooked turkey on fresh baked bread, her famous corn chowder kept piping hot in a thermos, romaine lettuce and croutons in a plastic container with dressing and grated parmesan cheese on the side, even peanut butter and jelly. James Richard sighed at the thought of it. Well, at least the assembly-line workers who made his lunch now couldn't screw up a banana, he decided. Or could they? He unpeeled it carefully.
"Do you believe this weather?" Lacey asked as she slid into the chair across from him.
"Hmmm," James Richard grunted, his mouth filled with banana.
"Seventy-five degrees, do you believe that? Seventy-five degrees the week before Halloween. I remember when we've had snow on Halloween."
"It can't last," James Richard warned.
"I know it can't last," Lacey said, disgusted at his pessimism. "That's why we need to enjoy it."
"Hmm," hummed James Richard, his mouth filled with banana.
"You know why we're having such great weather?"
"Hmm?"
"El Nino," Lacey announced. "It's warming the waters of the Pacific Ocean off the coast of South America and that's affecting weather everywhere. Where we are in the Upper Midwest, it means unseasonably warm temperatures," Lacey was quoting the weatherman now, "but everywhere else it means droughts, floods, typhoons tornadoes. I'm going to do my science project on it. I've already started working on mathematical models of weather probabilities around the world."
James Richard shook his head.
"I wouldn't," he said.
"Why not?"
"El Nino? Which is Spanish for 'the child'. Specifically the Christ Child because El Nino usually appears around Christmas; that's why the name is always capitalized? Everybody in school is going to do their project on it."
"Like who?" Lacey wanted to know.
James Richard took another bite of banana in reply.
"You rat," Lacey called him. "Rat, rat, rat, rat, rat." Then, "I suppose we could do the project together."
"I suppose," James Richard said. "You want my broccoli?"
"Ewww," Lacey replied. A moment later she glanced around the cafeteria, lowered her voice and said, "Did, ahh… Did you and your mom hear anything about the money?"
James Richard shook his head.
"No one's claimed it yet?"
James Richard shook his head again.
"Cool."
***
No one jumped when Worlie opened the car door this time.
"Well?" asked Sickler.
"He didn't get on the bus after school," Worlie answered.
"Good," said Truax. "He's sticking to his usual pattern."
Sickler studied his watch.
"What'll we do now?" Worlie asked. "Come back at eight-thirty to make sure he takes the city bus?"
"Yes," said Truax.
Sickler was still looking at his watch.
"I wonder what the kid does here for five hours?" he asked no one in particular.
Truax, who was about to use a screwdriver to activate the ignition of the stolen Ford Taurus, stopped and turned toward him.
"Good question," he said. "We'd better find out."
"How?" Sickler asked.
"You go and look."
"What?"
"Go and look."
"Me?"
"Yeah, you."
"Who died and made you king?" Sickler wanted to know.
"It's your turn," Truax insisted.
"No way. I'll let you know when it's my turn for something."
"It's your turn now," Truax told him. "Look in the gym, the library. Try not to be too conspicuous. Don't let him see you if you can avoid it. For God's sake, don't scare him. Just find out what he's doing and then come back. We don't want any surprises tomorrow."
"Why don't you go?" Sickler asked.
"Because if I left you two here alone, someone would likely get shot."
Sickler glanced at Worlie and said, "Since you put it that way." He opened the car door. "You'd better be here when I get back."
***
The massive doors at the top of the concrete steps leading to St. Rose of Lima school were locked. So was the side door and the back door. Affixed to the back door was a sign, black with white letters. It read: ALL VISITORS PLEASE REGISTER AT SCHOOL OFFICE.
How am I supposed to do that if I can't even get inside? Sickler thought angrily. He knocked hard on the metal door and peered through the narrow reinforced window that ran the length of the door frame. No one appeared.
So now what?
Sickler's options were limited. He could run around the school, trying all the doors he found, but he didn't want to make the effort. At the same time he didn't want to admit to Truax and Worlie that he couldn't even break into a grade school either. What kind of criminal mastermind would that make him? So he stood staring at the door, willing it to open. When that didn't work, he hit it. Then he kicked it. Then he shouted, "Open!" To his utter amazement, it did. A young girl used her back to push it open from the inside while she struggled with a black instrument case that was considerably taller than she was. Sickler was happy to give her a hand, yanking the door so quickly the girl nearly fell. After regaining her balance, she smiled at Sickler.
"I could have played the violin," she said. "But no. I had to choose the cello."
Sickler merely grunted and turned his face away.
"Gawd, some people's children," the young girl muttered as Sickler disappeared into the school, the door clicking shut behind him.
The first thing Sickler noticed was the video camera aimed at the entrance. He quickly ducked his head and moved down the corridor away from it. After he was sure he was clear, he looked up again. He found another video camera mounted at the end of the corridor aimed right at him.
"What is this, a prison?"
It sure felt that way to Sickler as he moved down the hallway, glancing in one classroom and then the other. He hadn't been inside a school since he dropped out at age sixteen, His feelings about it hadn't changed much though. School was for suckers, he told himself. Kids running around in little uniforms saying "Yes sir" and "No ma'am." Teachers constantly telling them what to do, where to go, what to study. Telling them you need a good education if you want a good job, have a good life. Yeah and then making them study stuff they'd never use in their life. Like math. And science. History. As if you had to know who was the sixteenth president of the United States, like you couldn't live without knowing. "It was the guy who came between numbers fifteen and seventeen." That was the answer Sickler once gave a teacher. What did he get for it? Detention. Maybe that's where the kid was, Sickler speculated by the time he reached the staircase at the end of the hall. Detention.
He went up the staircase. On the landing he discovered a plaque attached to the wall. It read:
EXPECTATIONS.
A) Respect Everyone in Words and Actions.
B) Respect Property.
C) Come to Class Prepared and on Time.
Isn't that just like a school? Sickler thought. Always telling people what to do.
He climbed the rest of the way up the staircase. Immediately, he heard the distinctive sound of basketballs being dribbled. Hey, that's it, he thought. Sports. The kid's on a team. Sickler needed to be sure though. He followed the sound of basketballs until he came to the doorway leading to the gymnasium. He peeked his head inside and saw several young boys in blue shorts and t-shirts with the St. Rose of Lima logo stamped on their chests in red. He didn't see the boy. He was leaning forward to get a better look when he heard a voice behind him.
"Excuse me," the voice said.
Sickler jumped at the sound and pivoted. His hand darted to the gun hidden under his jacket. In front of him was a thirteen-year-old boy with blond hair. Sickler had been blocking his path to the gym.
"It's you!" Sickler blurted.
James Richard backed away. "Me?" he said.
Behind him and across the hall was a door labeled BOYS LOCKER ROOM. He had been changing clothes, Sickler reasoned. That was as far as his brain could take him.
"Ah, ah," Sickler stammered. He remembered Truax's warning: Don't let him see you. For God's sake, don't scare him.
"I, ahh…"
"Can I help you?" a second voice asked from behind him.
Sickler turned again. Now he was staring at a man, maybe college age, with the word Coach stitched on the pocket of his white knit shirt.
"I was…"
"Are you supposed to be here?" Coach Barczak inquired.
"Yes, I, ah…"
"Where's your button?"
"My button?"
"All visitors are required to wear a button with the school name and the word 'visitor' stamped on it," the coach said.
"Is there a problem here?" asked a third voice.
Sickler turned again. This time he was facing a casually dressed middle-aged man with a two-way radio attached to his belt.
"Ahh…"
"He doesn't have a button," the coach told the man.
"All visitors must report to the school office," the man told Sickler.
"I was, ah, I was looking for it," Sickler said. "I was asking this young man where it was," he added, motioning toward James Richard.
"No, he wasn't," James Richard protested, moving nearer to his basketball coach. "It was like he was looking for me."
