WAIT. WHAT?
Was he talking about Pilar’s dad? Reya’s uncle?
He said the name again. “Miguel Rios. He’s badass, Nick. Like a for-real gangsta.”
I felt like the hospital was tilting. Nothing made sense anymore. “What kind of business would your dad have with a guy like that?”
“I don’t know.” He lifted his broken arm. “But I don’t think it’s going well.”
I’d heard “dark SUV” on the news, connected it to Dad’s beef with the mayor, and thought I was Sherlock Holmes. This was something else entirely. Reya’s uncle was some kind of boss?
I remembered what Reya had told me the day I phoned her at the funeral home, how odd it sounded. Once Eli got these tiny microphones off the internet and put them in our uncle’s car. I thought Miguel was going to . . . You just don’t do that to Miguel.
What was going on here?
This was so far over my head. I needed some advice, like now. Of course, I ended up giving Dustin advice, because I’m so qualified. “Dustin, don’t tell this to anyone else.”
“I didn’t even want to tell you. You’re like a bulldog, dude.”
One thing Deputy Marshal Bertram had stressed to my family during our years in the Program was the burden of information. Everyone thinks they can keep a secret, particularly a dangerous one. Most people are wrong. “I’m serious. Until I get back to you, keep this between us.”
“Keep what between you?” The politician’s boom of the mayor’s voice made me want to jump.
Dustin sputtered, “D-Dad?”
I faced the mayor, which makes me sound braver than I felt. Given an option, I simply preferred not having him behind me.
“Keep what between you?” he said again, spittle flying.
I didn’t say anything. Neither did Dustin. Fury flashed on the mayor’s face like lightning inside a cloud. He pushed me aside—not hard, more like a nudge—but I felt the muscles in his forearm flex, latent power that could’ve sent me flying if he chose. I got a small fraction of what Dustin must see all too frequently.
“Get out of here, Nick! Don’t come back. You’re to have no contact with my son again.”
I hesitated, fearing for Dustin.
“Now!” the mayor roared.
A passing nurse stuck her head in, concerned. “What’s going on in here?”
“Nothing.” I slipped by her and kept going down the hall. I hated the way I left, like a punk, but what could I do? Throw the boxing champ mayor out of his own son’s room? Me and Dustin take him down together? Maybe in the movies.
I texted Reya from the elevator to let her know I’d be in the lobby, then took a seat in the waiting area, away from the other kids. I wasn’t in the mood to hug or join in a prayer or do any of the stuff that was a thousand times more normal than what I’d just experienced.
They could keep their moral support. I wanted to talk to a killer.
I lied to her. Again.
I told Reya that Dustin hit his head and was too weak to give me any good information. She bought it. Why wouldn’t she? I was trustworthy Nick.
If what Dustin said about her uncle Miguel being Stepton’s version of Kreso Maric was true, Reya already knew about it. But she didn’t know about the thread-thin link between her uncle’s activities and Eli’s death. If there was one. I couldn’t risk her going ballistic and confronting Miguel until I knew more. No telling what that could lead to. Better to keep her in the dark, for now.
“Back to original plan?” she said.
“Original plan?”
“The J-Room. Eli’s backups. Whispertown, the key to everything.”
“I guess.” Whispertown might really be the mayor’s construction project. All the dying could be something else entirely. Nothing made sense.
“You wanna come back to my house? Mami will probably go visit Pilar again. You can explain that whole ‘vanilla ice cream’ thing.”
The words sounded good, but there was no enthusiasm behind them. Another teen was dead. She proposed a make-out session as a distraction. Something to tarnish last night’s perfect end. No thanks.
“My mom told me to be home.” A lie. “I’ve got chores.” Lie.
“Okay.” She didn’t sound disappointed.
She gave me a light, passionless kiss when she dropped me off. While our lips touched, I wondered if I’d saved enough allowance money to buy a disposable phone.
In my room, I logged on to my computer to start the process me and Bricks had rigged for when we needed to talk, a system he insisted on after we went into the Program, when I called him from a stolen cell in San Diego. I could still hear the rage in his voice. Tony, you’re in California! I can tell from the area code. You never let me know where you are. Never! You understand?
I got it. He couldn’t tell what he didn’t know. Couldn’t be made to tell.
Switching phones was key, but there was the little obstacle of sending each other the new numbers. Enter Facebook.
Step 1: With over a billion users, FB’s the perfect way to hide in public. My page is a fake, obviously. To those floating around cyberspace, my name is Stan Humphrey, Cablon High class of ’04. I enjoy sushi, massages, and Caribbean cruises. Every so often, Stan gets a wall post from a rival of his favorite sports team, the L.A. Lakers.
Kobe Bryant can eat %&^ and *#&@ die.
A casual observer would think it was just some flamer dick taking his sports too seriously . . . missing the code entirely.
The symbols correspond to numerals on a standard QWERTY keyboard. The way our system works, you add one to the number that corresponds with each symbol.
The symbols %&^ convert to 687, your area code.
Decode *#&@ and you get the last four digits of the phone number.
Step #2: Twitter. No decoding. Bricks simply posts his predictions for the pick-three lottery drawing: 555, for example.
I combine the pieces and—boom!—my godfather’s latest number.
And if he hasn’t gotten around to shooting the latest code into cyberspace, I just send a private message to his Twitter account. A simple ##. Letting him know to start the process. That’s what I planned to do.
Until I saw the private message in my Facebook in-box: Call Me. Now. 856-555-8741.
Bricks bypassed our codes, our slick system. A straight phone number.
That meant something urgent. Possibly life threatening.
Call me. Now.
Too bad the message was already two days old.