Shelter (Book One): A Mickey Bolitar Novel

THE SATURN RINGS ROUNDABOUT MOTEL was located beneath an overpass on Route 22. The neon sign advertised hourly rates, free Wi-Fi, and color television, as if some rivals might only be using black-and-white ones. The motel was, as the name suggested, round, but that wasn’t the first thing you noticed. The first thing you noticed was the filth. The Saturn Rings was the kind of seedy and dirty place that made you want to dunk your whole body in a giant bottle of hand sanitizer.

Myron’s Ford Taurus—the one Mom had used to drop me off at school just ten hours earlier, the one she sang along with the radio in and wrote me a tardy excuse—was parked in the motel lot. Myron had put a GPS in his car. I don’t know why. Maybe he suspected something like this would happen.

For a moment we just stared at the Taurus in silence. Provocatively dressed women tottered around in too-high heels. They had hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, as if death had already halfway claimed them.

I could hear my breath coming in shallow gasps.

“Any chance I can persuade you to stay in the car?” Myron asked.

I didn’t bother answering. We both got out. I wondered how Myron would figure out what room she’d be in, but it didn’t take much. We headed into a lobby with barely enough room for the sole vending machine. The man behind the desk wore an undershirt that covered about half his enormous belly. Myron slipped him a hundred-dollar bill. He made it disappear, burped, and said, “Room two-twelve in the C Ring.”

We walked to the room in silence. I want to say that I still had hope, but if some was there, I pushed it away. Why? I wondered. Less than a year ago we were a happy, healthy family taking that simple bliss for granted. I pushed that thought away too. Enough with the self-pity.

When we reached her door, Myron and I exchanged a glance. He hesitated, so now I took the lead. I pounded on the door. We waited for someone to open it. No one did. I pounded again. I put my ear against it. Still no answer.

Myron found the floor maid. It cost him twenty dollars this time. She swiped the lock and the door opened. The light was off when we entered. Myron pulled back the curtain. My mom was sprawled out alone on the bed. I wanted so very much to run out of the room or squeeze my eyes shut.

Nothing about a junkie is pretty.

I moved over to the bed and gently shook her shoulder. “Mom?”

“I’m so sorry, Mickey.” She started to cry. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s going to be okay.”

“Please don’t hate me.”

“Never,” I said. “I could never hate you.”

We drove her back to rehab. Christine Shippee met us in the lobby, took my mother by the hand, and led her past the security door. I heard Mom’s pathetic sniffles cease as the door slammed closed behind her. I glanced at Myron. There may have been pity in his eyes, but what I mostly saw was disgust.

A few minutes later Christine Shippee came back out. Her stroll had her customary no-nonsense bearing. That used to give me confidence. Not anymore.

“Kitty can’t have any visitors for at least the next three weeks,” she announced.

I didn’t like that. “Not even me?”

“No visitors, Mickey.” She turned her gaze on me. “Not even you.”

“Three weeks?”

“At the very least.”

“That’s crazy.”

“We know what we’re doing,” Christine Shippee said.

I made a scoffing sound. “Right, sure. I can see that.”

Myron said, “Mickey . . .”

But I wasn’t done. “I mean, you did such a great job last time.”

“It’s not uncommon for an addict to have a relapse,” she said. “I warned you about this, remember?”

I thought about how my mom had smiled at me, how she told me that she was home preparing spaghetti and meatballs, how she even supplemented her original bogus meal with garlic bread. Lies. All lies.

I stormed out. The sky was a black canvas, not a star in it. I searched for the moon but couldn’t find that either. I wanted to scream or hit something. Myron came out a few minutes later and unlocked the car.

“I’m really sorry,” Uncle Myron said.

I said nothing. He hated my mother and knew this would happen. He must enjoy being right. We drove a few minutes in silence before Myron broke it.

“We can cancel the trip to Los Angeles, if you want.”

I thought about it. There was nothing I could do here. Christine had made it clear that she wouldn’t let me see my mother tomorrow. Plus my grandparents were already on their way out there. They wanted to see their son’s burial place. I understood that. I wanted to see it again too.

“Don’t cancel,” I said.

Myron nodded. There was no more conversation. When we got home, I hurried down to the basement, closing the door behind me. I did my homework. Mrs. Friedman had assigned us a term paper on the French Revolution. I started working on it, trying to focus hard so I could get rid of other thoughts. I lift weights four days a week but missed today, so I dropped to the floor and did three sets of sixty push-ups. It felt great. I grabbed a shower. At midnight, I climbed into bed and tried to read a book but the words just swam by in a muddy haze. I flicked off the light and sat in the darkness.

No way I was going to fall asleep.

Myron hadn’t hooked up a television down here yet. I considered going up to the den and watching SportsCenter or something, but I didn’t want to run into my uncle. I picked up my phone and texted Ashley for the umpteenth time. I watched for an answer. None came, of course. I considered telling Mr. Waters about her—but what exactly would I say? I thought about it for a few more minutes. I flipped on my laptop and started doing searches on Ashley’s “parents,” but that got me very little. Mr. Kent was indeed Dr. Kent, a cardiologist at Valley Hospital. Mrs. Kent was, per Ashley, an attorney working at a big firm in Roseland. So what?

At one A.M., my phone buzzed. I jumped for it, hoping against hope it was Ashley. It wasn’t. It was Ema: u awake?

I texted back that I was.

Ema: should we try to break into Bat Lady’s again tomorrow?

Me: Can’t. Going to L.A.

Ema: why?

And then I surprised myself and did something truly out of character. I typed the truth: Visiting my dad’s grave.

For nearly five minutes there was no answer. I started to scold myself. Who just blurts something like that? Okay, maybe it was a weak moment. It had been a horrendous, confusing, emotional day. I tried to think of what to type, how to backtrack, when another text came in.

Ema: look in your backyard

I slid out of bed and made my way to the window in the laundry room—one that faced out back. In the distance, I saw someone—I assumed it was Ema—flashing the light on her cell phone.

Me: Gimme five.

It took less. I slipped on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and headed into the yard. Not surprisingly, Ema was in black, fully “gothed” up in vampire mode. Her earrings had skulls and crossbones on them. The silver stud she normally wore in her eyebrow had been replaced with a silver hoop.

She jammed her hands in her pockets. Her eyes drifted toward the basketball hoop. “Must help,” she said.

“What?”

“Basketball,” Ema said. “Having a passion like that.”

“It does.” Then I asked, “Do you have one?”

“A passion?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes flicked to the right. “Not really.”

“But?”

She shook her head. “This whole thing is weird.”

“What is?”

“You being nice to me.”

I sighed. “You’re not going to start that again.”

“I’m the fat outcast. You’re the new hot boy being eyed by Rachel Caldwell.”

“Rachel Caldwell? You think?”

Ema rolled her eyes. “Men.”

I almost smiled and then I remembered. It’s funny how you can let yourself forget for seconds, how even in the heat of the horrible you can have moments when you fool yourself into thinking it might all be okay.

“Listen, I’m the real outcast here,” I said. “I’m the new boy with the dead dad and junkie mom.”

“Your mom’s a junkie?”

More blurting. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Ema had moved a little closer. She stared into my eyes with the softest look.

“You better not be looking at me with pity,” I said.

She ignored my outburst. “Tell me about your mom.”

And again—don’t ask me why—I did. I’d never had a friend like her, I guess. That would be the easiest explanation. She had known that I was in trouble, and now, at one in the morning, she had made it her business to be here for me. But I think that there was something deeper at work. Ema had that way about her. She just got it. It was as though she already knew the answers and just wanted to make it better.

So I told her. I told her everything. When I finished, Ema shook her head and said, “Garlic bread. Wow.”

That was what I meant—about her getting it.

“You must be so angry,” Ema said.

I shook my head. “It’s not her fault.”

“Bull. Do you know what an enabler is?”

I did. An enabler is someone who helps a loved one act in a destructive matter. In a way, she was right. I was making excuses. But how do you make someone understand . . . ?

“If it wasn’t for having me,” I said slowly, “my mother would have been one of the greatest tennis players in the world. She would have been rich and famous instead of a widowed junkie with nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Ema said. “She has you.”

I waved her away, afraid to speak because I knew that my voice would crack.

Ema didn’t push it. Again she somehow knew that would be the wrong move. We sat outside together in silence for a few minutes. It was nearing two in the morning.

“Won’t your parents wonder where you are?” I asked.

Her face closed like a steel gate. “No.”

And now I knew not to push it. A few minutes later, we said good-bye. Once again I asked her if I could walk her home. She frowned at me. “I’m serious,” I said. “It’s late. I don’t like you walking alone. Where do you live?”

“Another time,” she said.

“Why?”

“Just . . . another time, okay?”

I wasn’t sure what else to say here, so I went with, “Okay.” Then I added, “But promise me one thing.”

Ema looked wary. “What?”

“You’ll text me when you get home.”

She offered up a small smile and shook her head. “You can’t be for real.”

“Promise me or I walk you home.”

“Fine,” she said with a sigh, “I promise, I promise.”

Myron’s backyard was against the neighbors.’ Ema headed out that way. I watched her walk away, her back hunched a little, and I wondered how it was, when I swore I wouldn’t connect with anyone, that she already meant so much to me. I watched until she vanished from sight, then I started back to the house. The basketball was lying on the ground outside. I picked it up and spun it on my finger. I looked at the hoop, but no, it was too late. I might wake up the neighbors. I spun the ball again and headed for the back door when something made me stop.

I pushed my back against the wall of the house so I could stay out of sight. My heart started thumping hard in my chest. I put down the ball and slowly slid toward the right, near the garage. I kept low and peered around the corner toward the street in front of Myron’s house. And there, parked on the corner maybe two hundred yards away from the house, was a black car with tinted windows.

It looked like the same car I’d seen today at basketball—the same car I’d seen at Bat Lady’s house.

I debated my next move. I remembered Mr. Waters telling me to call him if I saw the bald guy again, but come on, it was two in the morning. His cell phone was probably off. And if not, did I really want to wake him and his whole family and—what?—wait for him to maybe drive over? The car would probably be gone by then.

No, this was on me.

I wasn’t particularly afraid—or maybe curiosity just won out over fear. Hard to say. When I was ten, my family spent a year in the Amazon rain forest in Brazil. The local chieftain was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, using an offshoot of what was more popularly known as Brazilian jujitsu. I’ve practiced martial arts ever since, in those obscure corners of the globe, mostly as a way to keep in shape for basketball. To date, I had only used these skills once. They had worked—maybe a little too well.

Whatever, it gave me confidence, even if it might be false confidence. I sprinted behind the Gorets’ house next door. My goal was to move from house to house and sneak up on the car from behind. Three houses to go. No reason to stall. I peeked out from behind the Gorets’ azaleas and dashed to the Greenhalls. They owned a farm up north and were never home.

A minute later I was hiding behind a bush maybe ten yards away from the black car with the tinted windows. Now that I was this close, I could make out the license plate. A30432. I took out my cell phone and checked the plate number Ema had texted to me. The number was the same.

No doubt now—it was the same black car.

I glanced out from the bush. The car’s engine was off. There were no signs of movement or life. The black car could be just parked and empty.

So now what do I do?

Do I just approach and start slamming my palms on the window, demanding answers? That seemed somewhat logical. It also seemed kind of stupid. Do I sit here and wait? For how long? And what if the car drives off? Then what?

I was still hunched behind the bush, trying to decide what to do, when the decision was made for me. The front passenger door opened and the bald guy stepped out. He still wore the dark suit, and despite the hour, he even had the sunglasses on.

For a moment the man stood perfectly still, his back to the bush. Then he slowly turned his head and said, “Mickey.”

Gulp.

I had no idea how he had seen me, but it didn’t matter now. I stood up. He stared at me from behind those sunglasses, and in spite of the heat, I swear I felt a chill.

“You have questions,” the bald man said to me. He spoke with one of those exaggerated British accents that almost sound phony. Like he’d gone to some fancy prep school and wanted to make sure you knew it. “But you’re not yet ready for the answers.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, still with that accent, “just what it sounds like.”

I frowned. “It sounds like something you’d read on a bad fortune cookie.”

There was the hint of a smile on the bald man’s face. “Don’t tell anyone about us.”

“Like who?”

“Like anyone. Like your uncle.”

“Myron? What would I tell him anyway? I don’t know anything. Who exactly are you? Or, as you put it, us?”

“You’ll know,” he said, “when the time is right.”

“And when will that be?”

The man slid back into the car. He never seemed to hurry, but every moment was almost supernaturally fast and fluid.

“Wait!” I shouted.

I moved quickly, trying to reach the car door before it closed. “What were you doing in that house? Who are you?”

But it was too late. He slammed the door shut. The car started up. Now, as I semi-planned earlier, I slapped the tinted windows with my palm. “Stop!”

The car started to pull out. Without thought I jumped on the hood. Like you see in the movies. But here is what you don’t see in the movies: there is really no place to grab on to. I went for that area near the windshield but my fingers couldn’t get a grip. The car moved forward, stopped short, and I went flying.

I managed somehow to land on my feet, stumble, and stay upright. I stood now in front of the car, daring them to run me down. Even the front windshield was tinted, but I stared through it toward the passenger seat, trying to imagine I was eye to eye with the bald man. For a few moments, nothing happened. I stayed in front of the car.

“Who are you?” I asked again. “What do you want with me?”

I heard the passenger window slide down. I was tempted to go to it, but that might be a sucker move. Maybe the man just wanted me to move out of the way so he could drive off.

“Bat Lady said my father is still alive,” I shouted.

And, to my surprise, I got a reply. “She shouldn’t have said that.”

My heart stopped. “Is he?”

There was a long silence.

“Is my father still alive?” I demanded.

I put my hands on the hood, my fingers digging into the metal almost as though I was going to lift the car and shake the answer out of it.

“We’ll talk,” the man said.

“Don’t give me that—”

And then, without warning, the car flew into reverse. I fell forward onto the street, scraping my hands on the pavement. When I looked up, the car spun around and disappeared around the bend.