picks fashioned from dental tools. False driver’s licenses with Dono’s photo, in three names and three states. A mismatched pair of handguns—a little .32 and a newer, meaner nine-millimeter Browning. All useful in an emergency.
Each of these, or similar items, I remembered being in Dono’s hiding place the last time I’d seen it. He also used to keep cash on hand, maybe nine or ten grand in twenties and fifties. Nothing like that now. Maybe he’d switched to cash cards.
There were two sets of keys as well. The bigger set looked like its keys would fit the house and truck and other things around the place.
The second set was more unusual. Two pairs of keys. The first pair was silver and pistol-shaped, with the shaft of the key coming off the rounded head at a ninety-degree angle. Keys for an engine. Maybe a generator. The second pair was small and brass-colored. The four keys were attached to a small, rough chunk of reddish wood. Someone had drilled a hole in the wood, to thread the key chain through it. Odd. Not Dono’s usual style.
There were also three cell phones, the cheap kind you could buy at any drugstore and use with a prepaid SIM card. Two were still sealed in their plastic packages. I tried turning the other one on. Its battery had a couple bars. I took the phone and pocketed both sets of keys before closing the compartment and putting the soup cans back in place.
The phone’s log showed only one call, placed the day before to a Seattle number. A 206 area code, one of the old ones. There was no name assigned to the number. I checked the phone’s contact list. Empty. No saved names or numbers at all. I counted myself lucky just to find the single number in the log. The Dono I knew would have made sure to wipe the log after every call. Maybe he was slipping.
I went back to the Seattle number and pressed CALL . There were two rings, and then a female voice came on the line:
“You have reached the law offices of Ephraim Ganz. Our office hours are Monday through Friday, eight A.M . to five P.M . Pacific time. If this call is urgent or if you need to post bail, please contact Martone Bail Bonds at—”
I hung up. Ephraim Ganz had been Dono’s criminal attorney for as long as I could remember. And apparently still was. Was Dono in trouble with the cops again? Detective Guerin hadn’t mentioned any recent arrests, but maybe he was keeping that little fact to himself.
What Dr. Singh had asked me earlier that day came flooding back. Did my grandfather have a living will? Christ, was that why Dono had called Ganz? Had he known that trouble was coming?
My fingers gripped the phone, as if testing the limit of strength in my healed arm. Tomorrow was Monday. Ganz’s office would be open. Or I could find Hollis.
Addy Proctor had summed it up for me:
You have to do something. Or go nuts.
I was halfway to crazy already. It was time to start pushing in the other direction.
AGE NINE
Granddad had told me that the cabin we were looking for was only fifteen minutes from the town of Gold Bar. I guess he was thinking about regular streets, because the rest of the drive took at least half an hour. It got even slower the farther we went, winding our way up into the hills. The roads changed from paving to gravel to hard-packed dirt. Granddad kept glancing at the directions he’d written down on a notepad, checking the odometer on the Cordoba’s dashboard to know when to turn.
He was mad. Maybe at how long it was taking us to get there. At least a little at me. He’d told me on the hour’s drive from Seattle that he was going to talk to a man about some guns. Not the sort you could buy in any shop, he’d said. I thought it was awesome. I asked a lot of questions. Granddad eventually told me to shut it.
So I read my X-Men comic books.
Tried
to read them. They had been building up to this big fight with Sabretooth for like a year, and I wanted to read it so much I’d brought the new issue along, and I never
Each of these, or similar items, I remembered being in Dono’s hiding place the last time I’d seen it. He also used to keep cash on hand, maybe nine or ten grand in twenties and fifties. Nothing like that now. Maybe he’d switched to cash cards.
There were two sets of keys as well. The bigger set looked like its keys would fit the house and truck and other things around the place.
The second set was more unusual. Two pairs of keys. The first pair was silver and pistol-shaped, with the shaft of the key coming off the rounded head at a ninety-degree angle. Keys for an engine. Maybe a generator. The second pair was small and brass-colored. The four keys were attached to a small, rough chunk of reddish wood. Someone had drilled a hole in the wood, to thread the key chain through it. Odd. Not Dono’s usual style.
There were also three cell phones, the cheap kind you could buy at any drugstore and use with a prepaid SIM card. Two were still sealed in their plastic packages. I tried turning the other one on. Its battery had a couple bars. I took the phone and pocketed both sets of keys before closing the compartment and putting the soup cans back in place.
The phone’s log showed only one call, placed the day before to a Seattle number. A 206 area code, one of the old ones. There was no name assigned to the number. I checked the phone’s contact list. Empty. No saved names or numbers at all. I counted myself lucky just to find the single number in the log. The Dono I knew would have made sure to wipe the log after every call. Maybe he was slipping.
I went back to the Seattle number and pressed CALL . There were two rings, and then a female voice came on the line:
“You have reached the law offices of Ephraim Ganz. Our office hours are Monday through Friday, eight A.M . to five P.M . Pacific time. If this call is urgent or if you need to post bail, please contact Martone Bail Bonds at—”
I hung up. Ephraim Ganz had been Dono’s criminal attorney for as long as I could remember. And apparently still was. Was Dono in trouble with the cops again? Detective Guerin hadn’t mentioned any recent arrests, but maybe he was keeping that little fact to himself.
What Dr. Singh had asked me earlier that day came flooding back. Did my grandfather have a living will? Christ, was that why Dono had called Ganz? Had he known that trouble was coming?
My fingers gripped the phone, as if testing the limit of strength in my healed arm. Tomorrow was Monday. Ganz’s office would be open. Or I could find Hollis.
Addy Proctor had summed it up for me:
You have to do something. Or go nuts.
I was halfway to crazy already. It was time to start pushing in the other direction.
AGE NINE
Granddad had told me that the cabin we were looking for was only fifteen minutes from the town of Gold Bar. I guess he was thinking about regular streets, because the rest of the drive took at least half an hour. It got even slower the farther we went, winding our way up into the hills. The roads changed from paving to gravel to hard-packed dirt. Granddad kept glancing at the directions he’d written down on a notepad, checking the odometer on the Cordoba’s dashboard to know when to turn.
He was mad. Maybe at how long it was taking us to get there. At least a little at me. He’d told me on the hour’s drive from Seattle that he was going to talk to a man about some guns. Not the sort you could buy in any shop, he’d said. I thought it was awesome. I asked a lot of questions. Granddad eventually told me to shut it.
So I read my X-Men comic books.
Tried
to read them. They had been building up to this big fight with Sabretooth for like a year, and I wanted to read it so much I’d brought the new issue along, and I never
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