“Looks like he’s giving him a ticket,” Timothy says as we slow down and veer toward the shoulder of the road. The cop looks our way, shielding his eyes as we flick on our headlights. I’m too busy rechecking the license plate: M34 DZP. That’s ours.
“How’d he even get it?” Timothy asks.
Thankful that Roosevelt’s safe at home, I open Timothy’s glove box. “You still have your—? Ah.” Toward the back of the glove box, his metal telescoping baton sits among the mess of maps and fast-food napkins.
“What’re you doing?” Timothy asks as I pull it out and slide it up my sleeve.
“Being smart for once,” I say, kicking open the car door even though we’re still moving.
“Cal . . . don’t—!”
It’s not until my door smashes into a concrete barrier that I realize what he’s warning me about. The car jerks to the left and rumbles over what feels like a speed bump. I was so busy looking at the van, I didn’t even see that we were passing over a small canal, one of the hundreds that run underneath Alligator Alley.
Just beyond the short overpass, Timothy pulls back onto the shoulder of the road, flicks on his own blue lights, and stops nearly fifty feet behind the van. He knows what happens when you surprise a cop.
“Hands!” the cop yells, pulling his gun as we both get out of the car.
“Federal agent! ICE!” Timothy shouts, flashing his credentials and sounding plenty annoyed.
He’s not the only one. “What the hell’re you doing with my van!?” I shout, racing forward without even thinking.
“W-Was I speeding?” my dad asks, panicking through his open window and not seeing us yet.
The cop smiles to himself and raises his gun toward my father. “Please step out of the truck, Mr. Harper.”
“I—I don’t—”
“I’m not counting to three,” the cop warns as the hammer cocks on his gun.
My father opens his door and climbs down from the cab, his face lit by the pulsing blue lights. “Cal? What’re you doing here?” he stutters.
Behind me, Timothy freezes.
On my right, just as I pass the open door of my van, there’s a low roar that rumbles like thunder. I turn just in time to see a snarling brown dog with pointy black ears and pale yellow teeth.
“Stay, Benoni,” the cop warns, never lowering his gun. With his free hand, he shoves my dad toward me. The movement’s too much for my father, who bends forward, holding his side.
As the cop finally turns and points his gun at all of us, we get our first good look at him. The headlights of the van ricochet off his grown-out copper red hair and thick eyebrows. But what lights up most is the prominent tattoo between his thumb and pointer finger. “Nice to finally meet you, Cal. You should call me Ellis.”
14
Wait— Okay, wait— Why would—?” I look around at my dad and Timothy, at this guy Ellis and his gun, and at the attack dog that’s perched in the front seat of my van. “What the crap is going on here?”
“Ask your father,” Ellis says. “Though good luck in getting the truth.”
“Me?” my dad asks, fighting to stand up straight but still holding his side. “I don’t even know who you—”
“My father was a liar, too,” Ellis says, pointing his gun at my dad. “He lied like you, Lloyd. Easily. Without even a thought.”
“Cal, I swear on my life, I’ve never seen this man.”
“That part’s true. You can tell the way his left hand’s shaking,” Ellis agrees as my dad grips his own left wrist. “But I saw you tonight, Mr. Harper. The way your son came to your aid, taking you to the hospitaclass="underline" He needs to rescue, doesn’t he? That was pretty fortunate for—”
“Hold on,” I interrupt. “You saw us in the park?”
A chorus of crickets squeals from the Everglades, and my father draws himself up straight, blocking the headlights and casting a shadow across both Ellis’s badge and his face.
“Calvin had no hand in this,” my dad says.
“Really? Then why was he so quick to get rid of that hold notice on your shipment?” Ellis challenges, motioning with his gun. He has handsome, chiseled features and the ramrod posture of an officer, but from the perfect Windsor knot of his uniform’s tie to the shine on that expensive belt he’s wearing, he’s got his eye on something bigger. “It’s pretty convenient having a son who used to be an agent, isn’t it, Lloyd?”
As they continue to argue, my brain swirls, struggling to— It’s like trying to fill in a crossword without any clues. For Ellis to know we got rid of the hold notice . . . For him to steal my van from the port and bring it out here . . . That’s the part I keep playing over and over. When I pulled up to the port, I checked half a dozen times—whoever this guy Ellis is, no matter how good a cop he is—there’s no way he was trailing me. But if that’s the case, for him to get my van— Once again, I run through the mental reel. Roosevelt’s at home, which means there’s only one other person who knew where it was parked. The one person who picked me up there. And the only other member of law enforcement who hasn’t said a single word since I got out of his car.
There’s a metallic click behind me. The swirling blue lights stab at my senses, and my stomach sags like a hammock holding a bowling ball.
“Sorry, Cal,” Timothy says as he cocks his gun behind my ear. “Once the twins were born . . . Those braces aren’t gonna pay for themselves.”
15
Hundreds of People’s Choice Award–winning movies tell me this is when I’m supposed to shake a fist at the sky and yell, “Nooo! Timothy, how could you!?” But I know exactly how he could. His ethical apathy is why I approached him in the first place. And why I didn’t bat twice when he offered to sneak me inside the port instead of signing me in and getting a proper pass. I thought he was doing me a favor. All he was really doing was making sure nothing linked the two of us together. My heart constricts, like it’s being gripped by a fist. Dammit, when’d I get so blind? I glance at my dad and know the answer. The only good news is, I apparently wasn’t the only one Timothy was trying to keep hidden.
“Cal’s already seen it—you, me, all of it!” Timothy shouts at Ellis. “And what about the van!? What was your grand thinking there? Bring it out on the road and hope no one notices?”
“Watch your tone,” Ellis warns.
To my surprise, Timothy does, his shoulders shrinking just slightly.
“You said you just wanted the shipment,” Timothy adds through gritted teeth, fighting hard to stay calm. “Now you have far more than that.”
The pulsing blue lights pump like heartbeats from both sides. I’m tempted to run, but that won’t tell me what’s going on. On my right, in the front seat of the van, Ellis’s dog, protective of its master, growls at Timothy, whose gun is still trained on me. On my left, my father stares at Ellis, then Timothy, then back to Ellis.
Then he looks at me.
I see desperation every day. For the homeless, it overrides despair, depression, even fear. But when my dad’s wide eyes beg for help . . . I’ve seen that look before—all those years ago when the cops came and arrested him.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he blurts.
Across from us, Ellis pulls the cuff of his shirt out from the wrist of his uniform’s jacket, then flicks the safety on his gun. “I don’t care. We’ve waited over a century. I want my Book.”
Just behind me, my father puts a hand on my shoulder. There’s nothing tender about it. For the second time, I tell myself to run, but the way he’s gripping me—he needs the handhold to help him stand.
“All you had to do was leave the van downtown!” Timothy says to Ellis. “But with this— You know how much harder you just made this?” Timothy explodes, barely looking at us. This isn’t about me. Timothy is the same old Timothy. Just protecting his share. “Don’t you see? Now that he knows I’m working with— Sonuva—! You just wrecked my damn life!”