Читать книгу Lost in Babylon - Peter Lerangis - Страница 10

turned and jogged up the street toward me, I whipped my two hands behind my back.

“So, are we there?” I asked nonchalantly.

Cass looked at me curiously. “What are you doing?”

“Scratching,” I replied. “A lottery card. Which I found.”

“And how will you collect if you win?” He burst out laughing. “Come on. The house is just ahead. Number forty-five Walnut Street. The green porch.”

I’m not sure why I didn’t tell him the truth—that I’d found a piece of burned wood and a gum wrapper on the ground, and now I was using them to write my dad. Maybe because it was a dumber idea than entering a lottery. But I couldn’t help it. All I could think about was Dad. That he was just one state away.

I shoved the note into my back pocket. We jogged up the road to Torquin and Aly, who were in the entrance to a little cul-de-sac in the middle of Lemuel, Ohio. Torquin had parked our rented Toyota Corolla in a secluded wooded area down the block, to avoid being seen. As I joined Cass and Aly, we stood there, staring at the house like three ice sculptures.

Torquin waddled ahead, oblivious.

“I can’t do this …” Aly said.

I nodded. I felt scared, homesick, worried, and nine thousand percent convinced we should have let Bhegad send another team to do this. Anyone but us.

The house had a small lawn, trimmed with brick. Its porch screen had been ripped in two places and carefully repaired. A little dormer window peeked from the roof, and a worn front stoop held a rusted watering can. It didn’t look like my house, but somehow my heart was beating to the rhythm of homesickness.

A kid with an overstuffed backpack was shambling toward a house across the street, where his mom was opening a screen door. It brought back memories of my own mom, before she’d gone off on a voyage and never returned. Of my dad, who met me at school for a year after Mom’s death, not wanting to let me out of his sight. Was Dad home now?

“Come!” Torquin barked over his shoulder. “No time to daydream!”

He was already lumbering up the walkway, his bare feet thwapping on the gray-green stones. Cass, Aly, and I fell in behind him.

Before he could ring the bell, I heard the snap of a door latch. The front door opened, revealing the silhouette of a guy with massive shoulders. As he stepped forward I stifled a gasp. His features were dark and piercing, the corners of his mouth turned up—all of it just like Marco. But his face was etched deeply, his hair flecked with gray, and his eyes so sad and hollow I felt like I could see right through them.

He glanced down at Torquin’s feet and then back up. “Can I help you?”

“Looking for Marco,” Torquin said.

“Uh-huh.” The man nodded wearily. “You and everyone else. Thanks for your concern, but sorry.”

He turned back inside, pulling the door shut, but Torquin stopped it with his forearm.

“Excuse me?” The man turned slowly, his eyes narrowing.

I quickly stepped in front of him. “I’m a friend of Marco’s,” I said. “And I was wondering—”

“Then how come I don’t recognize you?” Mr. Ramsay asked suspiciously.

“From … travel soccer,” I said, reciting the line we had prepared for just this occasion. “Please. I’m just concerned, that’s all. This is my uncle, Thomas. And two other soccer players, Cindy and Dave. We heard a rumor that Marco might be in the area. We wondered if he came home.”

“The last time we saw him, he was at Lemuel General after collapsing during a basketball game,” Mr. Ramsay said. “Then … gone without a trace. Like he ran away from everything. Since then we’ve heard nothing but rumors. If we believed them all, he’s been in New York, Ashtabula, Kuala Lumpur, Singapore, Manila, and Ponca City. Look!” He grabbed a basket of snapshots off a nearby table and thrust it toward me.

“I—I don’t understand,” I said, sifting through pixelated, blurry shots of jockish-looking teens who were definitely not Marco. “Why would people lie about seeing him?”

“People want the reward,” Mr. Ramsay replied wearily. “One hundred thousand bucks for information leading to Marco’s return. It’s supposed to help. Instead, we’re just bombarded by emails, letters, visitors. All junk. So take my advice, kid, don’t trust rumors.”

As Marco’s dad took the basket back and returned it to the table, two people emerged from inside the house—a trim, red-haired woman and a girl in sweats. The woman’s slate-blue eyes were full of fear. The girl looked angry. They were both focused on Torquin. “I’m … Marco’s mother,” the woman said. “And this is his sister. What’s going on? If this is another scam, I’m calling the police.”

“They’re just kids, Emily,” Marco’s dad said reassuringly. “You guys have to understand what we’re going through. Today it was a repair guy. Flashed some kind of ID card, said he was going to inspect the boiler. Instead he snooped through our house.”

“Bloggers, crime buffs,” Mrs. Ramsay said. “It’s like a game to them. Who can find the most dirt, post the most photos. They have no idea what it is … to lose …” Her voice cracked, and both her husband and daughter put arms around her shoulders.

Torquin’s phone chirped, and he backed away down the stoop. Aly and Cass instinctively followed. Which left me with the three Ramsays, huddled together in the semidarkness of their living room.

The feeling was too familiar. After my mom died, Dad and I hardly ever left each other’s sides, but each of us was alone, locked in misery. Our faces must have looked a lot like the Ramsays’.

I was dying to tell them what had really happened to Marco, the whole story of the Karai Institute. Of their son’s incredible heroism saving our lives, of the fact that he could swoosh a shot now from clear across a campus lawn.

But I also knew what it was like to lose a family member. And if Cass was right, if Marco’s tracker silence meant he was dead, I couldn’t get their hopes up.

“We … we’ll keep looking,” I said lamely.

As I began backing away, I felt Torquin’s beefy hand on my shoulder, pulling me down the stairs. His face, which wasn’t easy to read, looked concerned. “Thank you!” he shouted. “Have to go!”

I stumbled after Torquin, Cass, and Aly. Soon we were all running down the street toward our rented car, top speed. I had never seen Torquin move so fast.

“What’s up?” Cass demanded.

“Got … message,” Torquin said, panting heavily as he pulled open the driver’s side door. “Marco found. Get in. Now.”

“Wait—they found him?” Aly blurted. “Where?”

Torquin handed the phone to her. Cass and I came up behind, looking over her shoulder as we walked:

TRACKER ACTIVE AGAIN. RAMSAY NOT IN OHIO.

STRONG SIGNAL FROM LATITUDE 32.5417º N,

LONGITUDE 44.4233º E

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“It can’t be …” Cass shook his head.

“Cass, just tell us!” Aly said.

“Marco,” Cass replied, “is in Iraq.”

“What?” I cried out.

But the other three were already at the car, climbing in.

Quickly, while they weren’t looking, I pulled out my note to Dad. And I tossed it down a storm drain.