“I do,” I said. I pushed his hand off my forearm and stared down at the pizza. “But suppose the truth will devastate the person.”
“Then maybe you should lie,” Uncle Myron said. “But you need to understand the price. You need to ask yourself if you’re ready to pay it.”
Was I?
We had both finished the first slice in silence and were reaching for our seconds when Myron said, “It’s all arranged.”
I stopped. “What is?”
“The exhumation of your father’s grave. We fly out to Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon. The county officer said we can bring up his coffin the next day.”
I just sat there, stunned.
“Are you sure you still want to go through with it?” Uncle Myron asked.
“Yes, definitely.” And then-maybe because I wanted to reach out a little or maybe because he really seemed to need it-I said, “Thank you, Myron.”
CHAPTER 48
The next morning I woke up early and put on one of Myron’s old suits. It was a little big in the chest and waist, but it did the job. Uncle Myron’s tie closet was jam-packed with bright pink-and-green ties from some friend’s clothing company, but I managed to find a darker, somber one that would fit the occasion.
My cell phone rang. The caller ID said: KASSELTON HIGH SCHOOL.
“Hello?”
“Mickey, it’s Coach Grady.”
“Oh.” I sat down. “What can I do for you?”
“I just got off the phone with Chief Taylor,” he said. “He said all the charges against you have been dropped. In fact, he thinks you’ve gotten a pretty raw deal.”
I could feel my grip on the phone tighten.
“Mickey?”
“I’m listening, Coach.”
“Well, when I’m wrong, I’m wrong. You’re no longer suspended from the team. We will see you at practice Monday afternoon.”
I nearly leapt in the air with joy, but then I remembered where I was and what was happening today and so I stopped, thanked Coach Grady for calling, and finished tying my tie.
“Do you want a ride?” Uncle Myron asked.
“I’d rather walk.”
“I’m not sure I understand why you’re going. I mean, this is really sad and all, but this boy vanished twenty-five years ago. You obviously didn’t know him.”
I didn’t bother correcting him.
“Mickey?”
“Yeah?”
“Whether you knew this kid or not, I mean, you look kinda happy for a guy heading to a memorial service.”
I decided to tell him. “Coach just called. I’m back on the team.”
Without warning, Myron threw his arms around me and pulled me close. My body went rigid at first, but then I softened. We both got this-what the game meant to us. Not even Ema could understand like Myron could. I wouldn’t say I hugged him back or anything, but I stayed there and let him hug me and then I thought about how much Spoon loved hugs and I gently pushed him away.
I ran most of the way to the memorial service, ran that stupid thrill out of me, so by the time I slowed down, I remembered why I was here. I thought about the Photoshopped picture of the Butcher. I thought about the Bat Lady and where she might be. I thought about Ema wanting to know who her father was, and I thought about finding out the truth about my own father. I thought about Spoon and when I did, I could feel a stab of pain go so deep in my heart I could barely breathe. And mostly, I thought about Rachel and her father’s desire to protect her and what, if anything, I should do about it.
The church bell rang. The sun shone bright off the church spire as if it were making fun of the sadness. There was a blown-up photograph of Dylan Shaykes on an easel board in front of the church door. It was the same picture of the sad-eyed, curly-haired boy I had seen in Bat Lady’s hallway.
The church was maybe three-quarters full. The organist played something appropriately sad. The people communicated via “church whispers,” though today they were even quieter and more respectful than normal. I sat in a pew near the back and checked out my surroundings. The same photograph of Dylan Shaykes was up on the altar.
I looked around for a familiar face, but so far, he had not shown up.
The organ music stopped at exactly nine A.M. The whispering faded into silence. The service began. Dylan Shaykes’s mother had passed away, but his father, the man the authorities suspected at first, sat front and center. He had a shock of white-gray hair and wore a tweed jacket.
The first person to speak was a boyhood friend of Dylan’s. The contrast was startling. We looked at a picture of a nine-year-old missing boy and now this man in his thirties was talking about him-about how Dylan liked kickball and collected baseball cards, about how he liked to walk through the woods and study butterflies.
One in particular, I bet.
The room fell extra-silent now, as though the very building were holding its breath. It was hard to fathom. Twenty-five years ago today, a little boy had been snatched from a school yard. Then, as if on cue, that little boy entered the church from the back.
I froze.
He stood for a moment in the back, all grown up now, before he found a seat in the last pew. He wore sunglasses. Nobody but me had seen him come in. Nobody but me knew who he really was.
When the first friend stopped speaking, I made my move. I slowly slid out of my pew and headed toward the back. I could see the surprise on his face when he spotted me. He rose and started for the exit. I followed. He burst through the door and into the warm sun. I followed.
Ahead of him, I could see the familiar black car.
“Stop,” I said to him.
Shaved Head slowly turned around. He took off his sunglasses and headed back toward me. You wouldn’t see it if you just looked at him. The curly hair was obviously gone now. The kid in the photograph had been a scrawny scarecrow while this man was tall and well built. The only thing that might give it away, when the sunglasses were off, were the eyes. They were still somehow sad.
“So now you know,” Shaved Head said to me.
“I know,” I said, “but I don’t understand.”
A small smile came to his lips.
“If you’re alive,” I went on, “why haven’t you told anyone? What happened to you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Did the Abeona Shelter rescue you?”
“I guess you could say that,” he said.
“Where is Bat Lady anyway? I don’t understand any of this. That picture she gave me was Photoshopped. It wasn’t the Butcher.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“What do you mean?”
“The man in the picture is the Butcher.”
“But-”
“He’s your Butcher, Mickey. That’s what she wanted you to see.” Then Shaved Head, aka Dylan Shaykes, stepped back up to the church’s glass door and looked at his father sitting in the front row. “We all have our Butcher.”
I could feel my whole body begin to quake. I remembered his words after Rachel was shot. I had asked him why had we-Spoon, Ema, Rachel, and I-been chosen. “Why you?” he had said, and then, looking devastated, he’d added, “Why me?”
I swallowed. “Were you kidnapped or were you rescued?”
Still staring at his father, he said, “Sometimes even I don’t know.”
“Dylan?”
He closed his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
“Is my father still alive?”
He didn’t reply.
“I’m flying out to Los Angeles. We are going to dig up my father’s grave.”
He turned toward me now.
“What will we find?” I asked him.
He put his hands on my shoulders and smiled. “The truth.” He let me go and started down the walk toward the black car. “Good luck, Mickey.”
“Where is Bat Lady?”
“She’s fine. She’ll be back soon with another assignment for you guys.”
“My friend was shot.”
“I know.”
“How is he?”
“He’s not good, but…”
“But what?”