As he rummaged through the beach house this time, Robert pretended he wasn’t an idiot and tried to find supplies he could actually use. The teenagers who’d last vacationed here had actually left behind plenty. He hit the jackpot in the kitchen, where he pocketed a book of matches and a small but sharp kitchen knife. Robert found a dusty pair of binoculars in a hall closet, ensconced in a slick black case. He slung those over his shoulder, wincing as the strap dug into his raw skin, and kept looking. A flashlight and a folded nylon poncho were hidden in the coat closet. And finally, behind the light jackets and sweaters, a navy JanSport backpack was waiting for him. The zipper stuck, but he packed his findings and set out again.
An hour and a half later, his feet ached so badly he was limping, but he crouched in a ring of cedars around the Yannatok County Airport, the second airstrip he’d watched pass by him from the school bus window. He’d walked close to the road’s edge, ducking in and out of shadowy tree cover. Bruises and scratches swelled his arms and neck, pink and puffy as balloons.
He watched planes come and go. The binoculars left sweaty rings around his eyes and a divot across the bridge of his nose. The airport was busy; he counted eleven planes taking off and eight coming in. The flights must be chartered, probably into Portland and Seattle. Guys in suits, hauling briefcases and suitcases, boarded and disembarked until about six o’clock. Cars remained in the parking lot for another few hours and were still there when Robert turned back. Could he get inside the place? Something told him that this wasn’t a keys-in-the-drawer operation. He worried about cameras and alarms. An octagonal blue-and-white ADT sticker was prominently affixed to the front office door. Of course, if he moved fast enough, he could be in the air before the police even waddled out to their cars. And this time, he knew exactly where he was going.
Canada. Vancouver.
The city was packed with people for the Olympics. He’d land the plane and be able to hide among the tourists, the influx of fans and athletes. So many eyes glued to TVs, to the floors of rinks, to the tops of mountains, to finish lines and medal podiums. Who’d notice just another dude in a hoodie?
He pushed Kumaritashvili’s last sled ride from his mind. His gamble would pay off. His final flight was going to be a victory lap.
He’d learned all he could from the outside. He’d go back to the house and lie low until nightfall. He wound his way through the thinner trees near the road, and he had almost made it back when a cop car sped by, lights flashing, siren blaring. Robert dove into the trees. He rolled to the ground and his knee collided with a crushed beer can, the grimy mouth slicing through his pants and biting into his skin. He buried his face in the needles, afraid to show even his eyes.
The siren faded. Robert counted to one hundred, then stood and brushed himself off. Sap gummed his fingers and scabs rusted over his knuckles. Blood stained his sweatshirt and his cuffs were caked in gray muck. Robert trudged to a spot where the trees weren’t so dense, and trained the binoculars over the road, scanning the horizon until he found the ocean, then located the house.
Cops were everywhere, like ants scurrying over an anthill. Black-and-white cars lined the street. Flashlights swept over the porch. Orbs of light bobbed across the windows. And there he was, walkie-talkie up to his mouth, wide-brimmed hat pulled low despite the evening dim. Sheriff Holt. His hair had grayed around the edges, but he was still clean-shaven. His badge still shone among the medals and patches that adorned his tan uniform. The fittest guy among them, possibly the only one with a chance against Robert in a race.
Robert crouched despite his aching calves, not daring to move. Shadows flitted inside the house.
He’d have to wait here until dark, until after midnight but before the morning commuters started heading for Yannatok County Airport. He shrouded himself in the poncho, trying to barricade against the damp chill. The cops came and went, stringing yellow police tape across the front walk. Holt paced around. Every time Robert thought the sheriff had called it a night, he popped up again, talking to the other cops and on his walkie. A news van from Channel 11 pulled up, and a red-suited reporter spoke into a mic outside. Robert wished he could hear what she was saying. Were they investigating him, or investigating a break-in? Was he on TV?
After a few hours, waiting out the police didn’t seem like such great idea. He was freezing, his fingers numb and clumsy. The air seemed filled with needles, pricking his neck, his eyes, his cheeks. His nose was running and he thought he’d have thrown up if there’d been anything substantial in his stomach.
He didn’t know if he’d survive another night in the woods. He wasn’t going to be a body somebody’s dog sniffed out of the woods, asleep forever on a bed of Douglas fir needles.
He could go back to the trailer. The place he’d sworn he’d left behind for good.
But sleeping in his own bed, his dog warming his feet, sounded like heaven. Even one of those crappy microwave pizzas, the Deb dinner special, would hit the spot. One night. Not even an entire one. He’d set his old alarm for two a.m., get back into the woods, wait for his chance to fly away.
His mom would be glad to see him.
Robert stuck to the trees as he made his way down the road to the trailer park.
Everything from the rusty mailbox to the bare flagpole was the same, but Deb had put up a sign: No trespassers. Beware of dog. She didn’t mean him.
“Hulk!” The dog launched himself at Robert’s legs, and Robert knelt down to hug him. Hulk licked his face, his tail drumming the ground. Robert scratched behind the dog’s ears, ruffled his bristled haunches.
He rapped on the door. Deb answered on the first knock and yanked him into the trailer. “Get in here! Get in here right now!”
She peered out before locking them in. Hulk scurried under their feet. “Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t think so.” His mother must have just gotten home. She looked tired, like after a busy shift. “You’re filthy. Are you hurt?”
Robert shook his head and Deb wrapped him in a hug so long that Robert started to squirm. She sniffled, her shoulders trembling. Finally Robert stepped back and awkwardly said, “Everything’s fine, Mom.”
Deb shook her head and unearthed a cigarette from her pocket. She sniffled again, wiping her eyes. “They came for your computer. Did you know that?”
“No,” Robert replied. “Did you give it to them?”
“Of course not,” Deb snorted. “It’s my property, and I haven’t done a damn thing. I’m thinking about taking it outside and smashing it to bits. The sheriff and I have gone around and around. But he’ll be back. With a warrant, I’m told.”
Robert shrugged. “Let him have it. What do they think he’ll find?”
Deb stared and shook her head. “You don’t get it. Just the fact that you have that stupid simulator on there is incriminating. There’s a fifty-thousand-dollar reward on your head. Fifty thousand dollars! There are people around here who would kill you for fifty thousand dollars.”
The same clothesline divided the living room. The dirty dishes stacked in the sink. A bucket half-full of scummy water beneath a leak. The dingy linoleum floor.
“I gotta go,” Robert said.
“I’m feeding you.”
Deb cracked four eggs on the side of the stove, dumped their contents into a bowl, and stirred them with a fork. Then she poured the yellow liquid into a sizzling skillet. Robert stood awkwardly by the table. He started to speak, to launch into his epic tale, but Deb shut him up with the palm of her hand. “Don’t tell me. Less I know the better. You were never here. You’re gonna eat this, and then you’re gonna catch a ferry, and then you’re probably gonna go to Seattle or up to Canada. I won’t know and I won’t tell. You’re not gonna draw any attention to yourself. You’re gonna keep your mouth shut and your head down. Aren’t you?”
“I am.” Robert swallowed. He didn’t tell her how he’d been trying to do just that on his last two flights, but something about this island, the forest, Yannatok’s very air conspired to weigh him down and keep him imprisoned here. Landlocked. “Canada was already my plan.”
“Canada would be the smartest thing.” She turned back to the skillet. “And when you get there, you won’t call for a while. And maybe if you do all that, after a long while, I’ll bring Hulk up for you.”
“That’d be great,” Robert said. He had thought he could take his dog with him now, but obviously that wouldn’t work. He was running from the law, and Hulk would be hard to hide.
Deb scooped scrambled eggs and toast onto two plates and poured orange juice while coffee brewed. Hulk sat at Robert’s feet, nudging his shins while Robert polished off his breakfast. His mother talked about her real estate classes, the housing market, the neighbors. She stopped her chatter and looked at him. “What are you doing with these lollipops?”
“Lollipops?”
“Everyone’s saying you’re leaving candy behind, in those planes.” Deb shook her head. “They’re calling you the Lollipop Kid, like you’re a smart-ass. Like you think you can’t get caught.”
Robert couldn’t help himself. “I haven’t been caught.”
“Yet.”
Robert stood up from the table. Deb said, “One more thing,” and then hustled to the back of the trailer. She came back with his old school backpack, the cracked faux-leather bottom covered in peeling Wite-Out and inky doodles. She stuffed one of his sweatshirts inside. “There’s two pairs of socks in there, too. Underwear. A clean towel. T-shirts. Toothbrush.” She rifled through the cabinets. “And take some granola bars.” She glanced at the kitchen window. “You gotta get out of here. I wouldn’t be surprised if a cop is watching this house.” Deb searched through her purse and pressed a crumpled twenty-dollar bill into his palm. “You get on that ferry, Robert. Or if you don’t want to do that, get on the bus. Buy a ticket and get off this island.”
Robert pocketed the money and stooped down to muss Hulk’s brown head. He was on his way out when he saw a newspaper clipping, torn from the paper and stuck to the refrigerator. “Lollipop Kid on the Loose: Yannatok Manhunt Continues.”
Deb nodded toward the article. “See for yourself.”
He couldn’t concentrate enough to read the whole thing. He scanned it, taking in phrases: theft of two airplanes, evidence recovered from the scene, mocking the police, combed through the woods. He couldn’t comprehend anything, until his eyes rested on Dalton White, of Barrens Road, knows Kelley personally from his time at Sea Brook Youth Home. “He was a good roommate,” White said. “I hope he gets away with it.”
“They interviewed Dalton,” he said. Like that was the most important thing.
Deb’s eyes shone with tears. She blinked. “I didn’t even know who that was.”
Robert swallowed and nodded. Then he tapped the article’s third paragraph. “I didn’t even leave any candy the second time. I took it all with me.”
“Don’t you see?” Deb’s voice thickened. She raised her palms. “No one cares what the truth is. They just want a good story.”
A good story. Like a father who laughed, who howled at the moon as he got the best of those cops, and then outran them through the woods and didn’t stop until he reached Canada.
A story with a better ending.
Who was the real liar? Robert or his mom?
He never should have come back. Every time he talked to Deb, her words piled on him, buried him alive.
“I care what the truth is,” Robert said. “I care that people—that you—make up stories. About me. About Dad.”
She met his eyes, and where he expected anger, he just found sadness. “That’s right. Blame me. You and everyone else.” She pointed at the door. “Go. And for God’s sake, don’t come back. To this island or this house. You’re not welcome here.”
“Cool. Awesome. I’ll be on the next ferry.”
He was half a mile down the road when he realized he’d in fact told his mother the story with the ending she wanted to hear. He’d lied when he said he was going to take the ferry off this island.
He was going to stick to his original plan and fly to Canada.
His mom could read all about it in the paper.
But first he was going to drop in on Dalton White.
He was going to cross the finish line, break the tape in Vancouver’s sky, he knew it, but if—if—the odds weren’t in his favor, he couldn’t bear to have his story die with him. He finally had a tale to tell, a true one, and finally, he had a friend to tell it to. He would choose the ending.