Chapter Twelve

Before I climbed out of bed, I checked my phone.

—Dude!—the one message read from Ian. Still not a word from Josh.

I directly rang Ian’s cell phone, hoping he wouldn’t face the wrath of Nurse GoodBody. “Hey.”

“I can’t believe it.” Voice back to ear-banging decibels, Ian didn’t rein it in a bit, pretty much elated. “My dad called me first thing this morning and told me the news! Do they have any idea what happened?”

“Looks like whoever killed Matt Rimmer got Bellman, too.” With one eye on the clock, I didn’t want to be late for first class. And I needed to free up my cell phone in case Josh or Olivia tried to get a hold of me. “Cowlings hit me up at home last night and filled me in with the gory details…he was beaten and strangled.”

“Wow…just…wow. I really thought Bellman killed Rimmer.”

“Yeah, I think all of us kinda thought that.” Phone glued to my ear, I rushed downstairs, popped some bread in the toaster, and multi-tasked the crap out of breakfast. At the table, Dad slowly ate his way through a bowl of cereal.

“My dad seemed kind of…pissed, in a way,” said Ian. “He wasn’t going to get his day in court. I think he was looking forward to that.” I imagined Ian’s dad, ranting at the heavens because a serial kill stole his sweet revenge.

“Yeah. Look, Ian, I gotta get my dad to work. Just remember, the threat of Bellman is gone.” I pulled open the refrigerator to grab some butter, stuck my head in, and lowered my voice, “But this means there’s still a psycho out there. You still have the bottle I gave you, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, keep it with you wherever you go, okay?” I shut the refrigerator door, feeling Dad’s eyes knifing into me.

“Whatever, I already said I would, Tex. Hey, let me know what happens at school today. I can’t wait to hear.” For the first time, maybe ever, Ian sounded as if he wished he could be there.

“No worries.”

“Hey, I get out tomorrow and get to go home. They said I could probably go back to school next week, too.”

“Great, ass-hand.” I couldn’t help but smile, even though Dad grimaced at the language. Whatever. I’d heard him yell a few choice words himself when he broke a dish or got a splinter.

I hung up and wolfed down the toast, while Dad impatiently tapped his watch to let me know we were running late.

“Ian’s going home tomorrow,” I managed between bites.

“Good news. I still wish you’d stay home today.”

“No can do, Popperoo. Besides, I have an algebra test today.” I didn’t, but I knew he wouldn’t argue against the dictates of scholarly pursuits.

I swallowed the last bit of toast, tossed the napkin into the pedal bin, and checked my text messages one last time. I still hadn’t heard anything from Josh.

****

After I pulled into the school parking lot—nearly twenty minutes before class, as I didn’t need to avoid Bellman any longer—I leisurely strolled up the sidewalk. I brushed past Principal Who-Are-You-Again, good morning, nice day, whatever, gotta go, standing on the steps. I suppose the principal thought it’d be reassuring after the tragedies the school had faced. Sorta we would be comforted by his authoritative presence. Whatever. Half the students didn’t even know the man from a sock.

At her locker, Olivia stood isolated, edgy, at unease. Anxiously, she looked around like the proverbial lost sheep, her usual larger-than-life persona on break.

“Tex, thank God! Josh hasn’t made it yet, and he’s not answering my texts.”

“Yeah, same here. Maybe he overslept and missed his ride or something.” Josh had four different methods of getting to school—the school bus; his parents, if they weren’t running late for work; me, on occasion; and his preferred mode of transportation, his skateboard. Since the weather held up decently today, I’m sure he would’ve opted for his board, so my argument about missing a ride didn’t hold much water.

“I’m scared.” Olivia’s visible eye captured a glazed-over sheen to it as if she hadn’t slept the night before. “I mean, he’s gotta have heard about Bellman by now, and he would’ve been all over the phone with us.”

“Let’s not worry yet.” But I didn’t feel my words, couldn’t believe them. “Hey, we got time; let’s go see if he called in sick at the office.” I didn’t know if they’d divulge that information, but we had to try. I grabbed Olivia’s arm, bracelets clanking around her wrist, and dragged her through the crowd of students. A multitude of faces bestowed upon us even more attention than we’d ever had before at Clearwell High. Groups of students huddled around their lockers, stopped their conversations to stare at us as we passed. Hushed whispers followed in our path, chasing us like the vengeful ghosts of Matt Rimmer and Bob Bellman. I finally understood why Olivia had looked so…scared. It hit me we were apparently the student body’s number one murder suspects. J’Accuse!

I quit dragging Olivia and instead placed my arm protectively around her shoulders. Seeing Olivia truly scared for the first time since I’d met her frightened me even more. Nobody put Olivia in a corner.

After we pushed open the doors to the office, the pelican glare of Mrs. Carbody blasted us with visual bullets. Busy sorting papers (or pretending to), she hovered over the greeting desk (from Hell!), and finally stopped to glower at us.

“Yes?” As always, Mrs. Carbody looked archaic in her outdated paisley-patterned dress, ready to explode at the seams.

“Um, hi, Mrs. Carbody.” Man, I hated coming here. “We’re, like, worried about our friend Josh Berillo. He’s not here, and kinda wondered if you might, maybe, tell us if he called in sick today?”

Her face broadened into a sickly, condescending smile. I halfway expected a fish tail to flop out of her pelican-like jaw. “Well, now, it’s against school policy—as you may or may not know—for students to be privy to this information.” She emphasized the word “privy” by raising her inflection to a bird-like shrill.

To our left, the large, foreboding door of doom swung open. Arville Hastings, in his monstrous yippee-kay-holeness, loomed in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, arms folded. A half-grin cocked up the side of his square head.

“Look, Carbody,” said Olivia, regaining her fire, “Josh is our friend, and we’re worried, so I think that gives us an in to your ‘privy’!” She screeched the last word in imitation of Mrs. Carbody, whose smirky grin swallowed into pursed lips.

“Mrs. Carbody,” I said calmly, trying to do my best good cop routine since Olivia already owned the bad cop gig. “Surely you understand with these unfortunate… tragedies that have happened lately, we’re just concerned about our friend’s well-being?”

Mrs. Carbody stared at me and then looked to Hastings, who took it all in with amusement. Good times. He nodded to Carbody and mumbled, “Fine.”

Olivia blurted out a victorious, “Hah!”

Obviously angry at being overruled in her domain, Mrs Carbody returned to her endless paper shuffling, slapping the piles on her desk.

“Well, let’s see. Berillo…Berillo…Berillo…” Eyes on Olivia, she blindly turned the papers over. “Here we are.” She smacked the stack of papers, a physical embodiment of an exclamation point.

“Why, yes, indeed. Mrs. Berillo called in for Josh this morning. He’s sick. If it’s fine with you, may I get back to work?”

Olivia snorted at Mrs. Carbody’s Victorian melodrama, but relief sung clearly in her outburst.

Hastings barked, “Get to class…it’s about to start.”

Arms linked, we bolted out of there, trying to beat the bell. We parted ways, and I made it to sociology with only three minutes to spare.

Time enough for one last text to Josh.—Sorry yur sick. Let me know how u r.—

****

Usually so locomotive, Mr. Jensen ambled into the classroom, holding a large cup of coffee. He looked tired as he squeezed into his chair. Leaning back, the chair groaned. Thumb and finger supporting his face, he gazed at us wearily.

Great, here comes another tear-jerking session where we hear about the greatness of Bob Bellman from classmates and have to express our innermost feelings on sudden and unexplainable death. Susie, resplendent in her cheerleader uniform, sobbed silently, head buried on her desk. A particularly hard week on Susie. Oddly enough, no one rushed forward to comfort her this time.

I looked at Ian’s empty chair. My friend would be back soon, edgily scrunching back and forth behind his desk. Sure, he’d have his casted hand permanently wired up into the air, like the kid the teacher never called on, but I couldn’t wait. I missed him.

Finally, Mr. Jensen, baggy-eyed, set down his coffee cup and said, “Okay, open your Soc books to page 199. Start reading Chapter Five…” He grabbed a stress ball off his desk, squeezed it repeatedly, the whiffing release of air the only sound in the room.

Wow, a complete turnaround from the parade thrown for Matt Rimmer’s death. Maybe the powers that be told Mr. Jensen to keep it on the down-low because they didn’t want to panic the school. Or since Bellman had been expelled, it would’ve broken some sort of school rule to rave about the great loss of the king bully. Or maybe—just maybe—some wise teacher thought it’d be in poor taste to honor Bellman after what he’d done to Ian. Either way, I was hellishly glad we didn’t have to sit through a day of praising the wonderful legend that was Bob Bellman.

Experiencing a hard time concentrating, I endlessly reread sentences that didn’t register, total jibber-jabber. Distracted by Susie’s crying and the air deflating from Jensen’s tennis ball, I looked around the classroom, not the only one. A few students stole glimpses at me, some rife with distrust, others filled with dread. I knew they thought I’d killed Bellman. A sudden crazy-ass insight smacked me as to what it must’ve been like to be Bob Bellman—feared and hated by other students. The outrageous irony dug deep I hid my face in my book and didn’t look up again until the bell rang.

****

I suffered a long and strange morning until lunch break mercifully arrived. Now or never, I told Olivia to meet me at my car at lunch. I had no idea how she’d respond to the news that I’m a witch. Total dread.

Josh’s no-show at school raised my dread levels to off the chart. Yes, his mother had called in sick for him, but why didn’t he respond to my texts? I stepped up the frequency in sending my messages.

—Are u ok? Where r u? Call me!—

Maybe he didn’t want to text me at school for fear I’d get my phone taken away from me. But, now, I didn’t really care.

A boulder of fear slammed through my stomach, I met up with Olivia at her locker.

“Hey,” Olivia greeted me. “God, has everyone been weirder than crap with you all day? Like you’re a huge freak show or something?”

“Yeah. Creepy. I never thought people would think of me as a killer, but…I can clear a room like that!” I snapped my fingers. People stepped out of our way, Moses at the Red Sea. “Have you heard from Josh yet?”

“No…”

“Okay, I’m calling him.” Phone held to my ear, we walked into the parking lot. After six rings, I got dumped into voice mail. “Josh, give me a call. I’m getting kinda worried.”

At the Battle Bucket, I opened the passenger door for Olivia. Before I could say anything, she plunged into a plastic bag full of carrot sticks and started gnawing. “What’s up, Doc?”

“Okay,” I said. “This is going to sound messed up, but there’s something I need to tell you…”

Olivia continued to chew on her carrot, watching me expectantly. “Tex, you’re not dying or something, are you?” Her eye glistened in the cold day sunshine.

“No, nothing like that. Well, I hope not, at least.” I reached for a deep breath and braved myself. “I’m a witch.”

She stared at me blankly as if what I said hadn’t been a big deal. The crunching of her carrot reached epic proportions of cacophony in the enclosed car. Suddenly, she raised her fist, pumping it in the air. Ah, here we go…took a while to fire up her synapses.

“Shut up,” she screamed. “What do you mean you’re a witch?” Torn between extreme giddiness and disbelief, her ear-piercing threatened to blow out the Bucket’s windows. Her fists shuddered above her, holding onto invisible, anti-crazy handlebars, grounding her from this flight of lunacy.

“I just found out recently. I found out my mom was a witch, and apparently, I inherited her…talents. Or whatever.”

“Omigod, shut up!” Lunching students passed us, looking in at the commotion. They probably thought we were planning our next murder. “Do something! Make Malinowski a toad or something!” Her smile broke wide while she contemplated the new possibilities for us.

“O’, it doesn’t work like that. I can’t just turn Malinowski into a frog. Even if that were possible, I couldn’t do it because I guess it’s getting into black magic, which is a big no-no. I’m not really sure what I can do, at this point. Mickey’s been teaching me some stuff, but she’s taking her time.”

“Mickey? Who’s Mickey? Your talking mouse?”

“Mickey’s my mentor. She knew my mom and taught her stuff. She knows witch stuff.” I gestured toward Olivia’s backpack on the floor. “Hey, didn’t you wonder what that bottle was doing in your backpack?”

“What bottle?” She began to rummage through her backpack, finally snagging the spell at the very bottom. “Aha! Shows you how much I ever get into my backpack. What is it?”

“It’s a protection spell.” Olivia started to open it. “Stop! It won’t work if you open it.” She halted and gave it a quick shake.

“Omigod.” Her hysterics went into round two. “Does Ian know? Does Josh know? They better not have found out before me!”

“Well…I sorta’ had to tell Ian…just to protect him. It was the only way to get him to keep the bottle with him in the hospital. It had nothing to do with trust or anything like that, O’.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Tex? You know you can trust me!” She jabbed me on the shoulder.

“I know. Believe me, there’s no one I want on my team more than you—you’ve always got my back. But Mickey told me sometimes if you tell a person about a spell, it’ll lessen its impact and may not work.”

“Whatever.” She shrugged. “But, you better not keep any more secrets from me.”

“I promise.”

“Okay, when are we going to start your witch education? I want in on this. I can be like your apprentice or something!” Damned determined to headline “Project Witchcraft,” I couldn’t stop her. Actually, the thought of sharing my witchcraft education with her comforted me.

“Well, I don’t know how Mickey will like it if you come over.” I knew well she would definitely not appreciate it. “But, maybe you can help me with research and practice and stuff.”

“Omigod, this is so gonna kick ass,” she screeched.

My cell phone buzzed.

A message from Josh that chilled me:—I’m scared!—

—Josh!— I wrote back. —Where u been? What’s wrong?—

I let out a huge sigh of relief as I held the phone up to show Olivia. As an afterthought, I texted, —Nothin to be scared about. Bellman’s gone.—

I sent the message and felt instant relief.

“Come on, O’,” I said. “It’s time to go back to the hallowed halls of Clearwell High for some fine learning experiences.”

****

During the rest of the afternoon, I constantly peeked at my phone to see if Josh had written back. By the time gym class rolled around, full-on panic set in again. Maybe he’s just really sick. My paranoid alter ego kept nudging me in the other direction, though. Since when would being sick keep a dedicated texter like Josh down?

And just what was he afraid of, anyway? Surely, he’d heard the news about Bellman by now. While getting ready for gym, I quickly shot out another text to him: —Have u heard Bellman’s dead?—

Probably not the most sensitive text in the world, but, hey, it got the message across efficiently. Stomach-churning silence responded.

I bucked the no-call during class school policy and rang Josh. Dumped to the robotic message woman again, I hung up and flung my phone into the locker. That did it. After school, I’d drive over to his house before I dropped Olivia off.

That particular gym class proved horrifically long. As we did nothing but run laps around “The World’s Smallest Indoor Track” the entire hour, my mind worked itself up into a lather of overblown hysteria. I honestly didn’t even remember running as I watched the clock on the gym wall tick by slowly. Surely I’m just letting my imagination run out of control. But a deep, gnawing feeling in my gut—not unlike hunger—told me something different.

****

I practically dragged Olivia down the hall by her arm. “Wait a minute, dammit,” she said. “I’ve got to grab my backpack. And quit pulling me around like I’m your damn suitcase!”

“Oh, crap, sorry.” Totally driven, I didn’t realize my brutish behavior. We pulled a u-turn toward her locker. “I’m just really, really concerned about Josh. We need to get over to his house asap.”

The corners of her mouth curled down, her eyes flashed with alarm. “Okay.” She grabbed her backpack and slung it over one shoulder. I don’t know how she carried it, as it looked heavier than her.

We swam through the ocean of students, shoals of apprehensive minnows parting before the killer sharks. I tossed her bag in the Bucket’s back seat and sped out of there, carefully trying to avoid a repeat performance of mowing down a student.

Even though a cold November day, sweat beaded my brow. “Seems like we’ve made a lot of getaways in the Battle Bucket lately,” I said. “Good thing she’s trustworthy.” I knew Olivia hated when I referred to the Bucket as female, but I thought to lighten the mood. I failed miserably.

“Your car’s not a her,” she said emotionlessly under her breath. “What do you think’s wrong with Josh?”

“I’m not sure. He’s not acting right, and he’s scared.” I raced around a corner, bounding over a curb. I cursed, hoping it wouldn’t flatten the tire. “Try and call him again, would you?”

“Sure.” She tapped the speed dial option. “No answer.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been getting all day.” A trail of leaves swirled up behind us as I rocketed along.

Finally, we pulled in front of Josh’s house. The driveway sat empty, not unusual. Both his parents worked during the day, and his brothers were away at college. But the sight of the front door open wide on such a cold day froze me with fear.

“Oh, crap…” I jumped out of the car and dashed through the yard toward the front door. In my haste, I’d forgotten to let Olivia out and heard her cursing from the Bucket. In seconds, she scrambled out of the driver’s side.

“Josh?” I yelled through the open door. “Hey, Josh, man, where are you?” The door looked as if it had been kicked in. The flimsy deadbolt had given away along with a piece of trim. My heart pounded in my chest, wanting to burst out and run back to the safety of the car.

“Oh my God,” whispered Olivia when she saw the damage to the door. Her hand flew to her mouth as if wary of hurling. Carefully, we stepped inside and surveyed the interior.

“Hello!” I yelled through the hallway to the left. We peered into the living room, where the TV and gaming console lived. No sign of Josh in there, his usual habitat. My breathing skyrocketed into realms of irregularity, like an out-of-shape man on a treadmill. Olivia took my hand, ignoring my sweat-drenched palm.

Other than the front door, the house appeared normal enough. We approached the long, narrow staircase leading up to Josh’s bedroom. I strained, peering up into the shadows at the head of the stairwell. Slowly, we climbed the steps, each one creaking softly, complaining of our offending weight. At the top of the stairs, I saw Josh’s closed bedroom door. “KEEP OUT” read his homemade sign. If only this prophecy claimed truth.

I pushed open the door. Unmade covers twisted and strangled across the bed. For a teenage boy, Josh always kept his room shockingly immaculate. The full-length mirror at the foot of his bed had fallen over and smashed on the floor. A drawer jutted out of his dresser, clothes strewn across the room. The top of the dresser sat barren as if someone had swept an arm across it, the debris lying in a sad heap on the floor. Josh’s favorite skateboard lay on its back next to the bed, the wheels up toward the ceiling like a dog waiting for its belly to be scratched. That seemed the eeriest sight. I couldn’t help but think this one stubborn dog waiting for its master to come home would be disappointed. A struggle had taken place here, with Josh nowhere to be found.

“Tex, what if there’s someone still in the house?” Olivia whispered.

I thought about searching the house, but what next if I found the culprit? What would we do? Yell “Aha! Caught you!” and wait for sudden death and strangulation?

Too frightened to speak, I squeezed Olivia’s trembling hand with my own. I gestured for her to follow me. On the way out of the war-torn remains of Josh’s bedroom, I grabbed a brown turtleneck off the floor as an afterthought. Olivia shook her head and raised her free hand in a questioning fashion. I held a finger to my lips and led her slowly down the staircase. My legs quivered as if I’d just endured a monster workout.

I really didn’t want to do it, but I thought a photo of Josh might come in handy, the one on the refrigerator door. We stepped across the landing, bypassing the damaged open door.

“Go wait for me in the car,” I whispered.

She shook her head. It’s nearly impossible to argue with Olivia in full voice, and trying to do so in mute silence proved hugely futile. I gave up, and we entered the kitchen.

The kitchen floor linoleum squeaked with every footfall, a mouse-like warning about our intrusion. Amidst a blur of photographed smiling faces of various family members covering the refrigerator, I plucked a head and shoulder shot of Josh. Not a particularly spectacular photograph by any means, but it showed Josh smiling sheepishly. I knew why his parents cherished the photo. It captured Josh brilliantly. His large eyes stared off into the horizon—seeing all and doing absolutely nothing—conveying his warmth, quiet inner strength, and deadpan sense of humor perfectly. I tried to rearrange the photos slightly to make up for the missing space and made a silent vow to return the photo when I could.

A low rhythmic banging from the basement door shattered the silence. On instinct, I whipped around. Still connected at the hand, Olivia tumbled after me, almost falling into the refrigerator. She tugged on my arm and whispered, “Let’s go!” Teetering side-to-side, she resembled a child performing a “potty dance.”

The banging stopped. My heart raced again, paralleling the earlier thumping sounds. I considered checking out the basement and then thought better of it. Probably just the plumbing. We needed to get out of there. Before we messed anything up. Or before something worse happened.

Clamping my two acquisitions to my chest, we tiptoed out of the kitchen. The thrumming from the basement blared out again, kick-starting us into a panicked gait. I bashed into hanging pots and pans, knocked over a lamp in the living room, and leaped through the front door.

Once we tumbled into the car, we were breathless. Olivia locked her car door and I followed her lead.

Pale as a Kabuki actor, I reached over to hold Olivia’s hand. We sat in terrible silence, our rapid breathing the only sound on that quiet, cold day from hell.

I whipped out Cowlings’ card from my wallet and dialed the number.

On the second ring, he answered. “Detective Cowlings.”

“Detective…it’s Tex…Tex McKenna…” I waited for his response.

“Yes, I remember you.” He chuckled. “You’re the only Tex I know.” His tone shifted suddenly from amusement to suspicion. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re at Josh Berillo’s house… He’s missing, and it looks like there was a fight…or something in his room.” My words jumbled together. “I think someone kicked in the door!”

“Where exactly are you now, Tex?”

“We’re in my car in front of his house.” Olivia fidgeted with a long strand of hair, twirling it around her finger repeatedly.

“Wait…did you go in the house?”

“Yes, then we got out as fast as we could!” Cowlings had a way about him that made me feel everything I did always proved the wrong move.

“Okay,” he sighed. “Is there anyone else in the house? Or parked nearby you?”

I looked around even though I’d previously scanned the neighborhood. “No…no, I don’t think so. But we didn’t look everywhere in the house.” A chill ran down my spine as I conjured an image of a killer lurking in the basement.

“Stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said and hung up.

After five minutes, a patrol car pulled up behind us. Via the rear-view mirror, I watched a young, lone police officer talking on his radio. Ever so slowly, he got out of his car and walked toward my side, one hand on his right hip.

Anticipating him, I rolled down my window. With her head craned back, Olivia blatantly watched his every move.

“Tex McKenna?” he asked, although it seemed like more of a declaration.

“Yes, hi, that’s right.” I squirmed on the car seat, not comfortable being this close to the long arm of the law. “I’m the one who called Detective Cowlings a little bit ago.”

He stared at both of us long and hard, then leaned into the car slightly, his hands now resting on the windowsill. “Okay. I’m Officer Bensen. Wait right here until I come back.”

“Sure, okay, you got it,” I said, trying not to sound like a crack addict or whatever. Of course, the harder I tried, the worse I sounded. “Um, be sure and look upstairs first, and then we heard something in the basement and…um…”

Officer Bensen locked his stone-cold eyes on mine.

“Ah…okay. We’ll be waiting in the car.” I splayed my hand about the car for unnecessary clarity.

Bensen pulled out his radio, sputtered some indecipherable words, and cautiously approached the open door.

“Tex, you sure have a way with the cops,” said Olivia.

Soon, a brown Cadillac parked on the opposite side of Josh’s driveway. Cowlings stepped out, skillfully pulling his overcoat on with one arm while reaching in his suit jacket pocket for his notebook with the other hand.

He nodded at me in a half-hearted salutation, pulled open the back door, and scooted in. “Tex. Olivia,” he said. “You’ll be glad to know I contacted Mrs. Berillo, and she should be here shortly.”

Suddenly, Cowlings dropped the pleasantries. “I’d rather not continue to find you kids involved in what could possibly be bad situations.” I thought about this impossible-to-decipher sentence and had no idea how to respond.

“Detective, our friend is missing,” I said into the rear-view mirror at Cowlings. “We don’t want to be involved in bad situations either!”

Olivia turned around, facing Cowlings, one jean-jacketed arm draped across the seat back. “You really don’t think we had something to do with this, right?” I guess her enjoyment of her fifteen minutes of fame as a murder suspect had ended.

I finally realized how stupid I felt to have a conversation with a rear-view mirror and twisted around in my seat. “Detective, we’re wasting time here! I mean, it’s obvious something’s happened—something bad—and we just want to find our friend.”

“So do I. Tell me—from the start, whenever you determine that to be—what happened.” He snapped open a new notebook. I wondered if he now had a library devoted solely to me.

I told him everything, except for my grabbing Josh’s shirt and photograph. He didn’t say much, nodding here and there, scribbling haphazardly. By the time I finished, Officer Bensen stood at the front door, wearing gloves and waving to get Cowlings’ attention.

Cowlings slid out of the car. He, like Bensen before him, leaned into my front window, both hands firmly placed on the windowsill like an angry carhop stiffed on a tip.

“I’ll tell you what, guys,” he said not unkindly. “I’m going to let you go home now. I know it’s been an upsetting and a long day for both of you. Keep your cell phones on, but stay home. Be careful. Do not do anything to impede my investigation.” He straightened and placed his hands on his back as if it pained him. One final time, he poked his head down inside again, his confidence seemingly lacking this time. “I’ll find Josh,” he said, then hesitated. “I just want you both to be realistic.” He looked as if he debated finishing his thoughts. “Okay?” Apparently, his discretion won out over blunt truthfulness.

“Okay.” But we weren’t going home.

I drove a block before either one of us spoke. “Sorry, O’. We have to make a stop first. Time’s important because Josh could be counting on us.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To Mickey’s.”

She stared at me, first with fear, and then confusion set in. Finally, she grinned and yelled “All right!”

Hang on, Josh. The cavalry’s coming.