CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

"JESUS, JAY, YOU'RE worse than an ex-boyfriend. How many times are you going to call until you get the hint?"

"As many times as it takes for you to call me back!" I tried to keep the anxiety at bay and not sound like a complete psycho. We hadn't parted on the best terms, I knew, conflicting emotions warring inside me, but I needed Nicki on my side. What I said next didn't help my cause. "Where have you been sleeping?"

"What the f.u.c.k business is it of yours?"

"That came out wrong."

"I'm busy. What do you want?"

I tried explaining the same information I'd already left on her phone half a dozen times. Her reaction told me she hadn't listened to any of those messages. I reiterated about Bowman and how desperate the Lombardis were for that one particular Xerox. I told her about the reporter, Jim Case. How close we were. Then she tried to make me sound crazy.

"I know, Jay. I got the voice mails. All sixty-four of them."

"I didn't leave sixty-four voice mails."

"Where are you? What number is this?"

"My friend said-"

"Your friend is wrong. Everything I copied from Longmont, I gave you."

"The only reason I asked where you're sleeping is because they sent someone to your apartment, house, wherever you live to get it."

"Who?"

"Lombardi!"

"To get what?"

"The photocopy!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The man I met with-he broke into your place. To steal a photocopy. Kids shipped out of state. Think."

"Why are you talking to a guy trying to break into my house?"

"That's Bowman! See! You didn't listen to my messages!"

"For the last time: I don't know what you're talking about, Jay. Have a drink. You sound f.u.c.king cracked out."

"Please, Nicki."

Dead silence on the other line.

"Nicki?"

"Go ahead."

I resented the belittling tone but did my best to break down my night, a conversation and circ.u.mstance so surreal-meeting my former adversary Bowman at a Dunkin' Donuts on the seldom-used Merrick Parkway, attached to a gas station I'd never seen before, Jim Case and his phone that never stopped ringing-the longer I talked, the more I began wondering if, in my sleep-deprived, neurotic state, I hadn't gone fugue and imagined the whole d.a.m.n thing, conflating my brother and me, last year and this. I didn't have any lorazepam with me, chest thumping, thrumming, rattling the rib cage. Thank G.o.d Nicki finally came around.

"Wait a second. My last day there. When they fired me, yeah . . ."

"Yeah what?"

"I was all hyped up over Judge Roberts, y'know, back when I thought if I helped you out, you might give a s.h.i.t about me."

What could I say to that?

"I'd gone down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. There was a box. I think it was meant for records. I told you, remember? Kids shipped out of state to Kentucky and Arizona."

"Yes! That's that one."

"It's funny because it barely mentioned Roberts' name. Had other s.h.i.t on there."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. It was very academic. Like the overview for a study."

"Do you still have it?"

"I don't know."

"Can you check?"

"Jesus, is it that important?"

"Yes!"

"I'll call you back."

I fired up a cigarette and paced around my room. I peeked out tattered curtains. Fissures cracked the clouds. Freezing rain fell. Cars zoomed up and down the Turnpike, spinning mist and mud, miniature oily rainbows shimmering over mounds of dirty snow. Soon as I was done with one smoke, I lit another. The telephone rang.

"The header reads 'Executive Summary,'" Nicki said. "It's like a cost a.n.a.lysis. An abstract. Concerns the juvenile justice populations in Kentucky and Arizona, the states where New Hampshire unloads its overflow. A feasibility prospective. Y'know, for privatization."

"It says New Hampshire?"

"What do you mean?"

"Does it say that New Hampshire is the one shipping the kids out of state, and not, say, Vermont?"

"Why would New Hampshire keep a record of what Vermont does?"

"Never mind."

"I don't see anything here, Jay. Doesn't mention North River at all. Nothing about UpStart. I don't know what good it's going to do you. Unless you need some furniture hauled away."

"Huh?"

"There's the outline of a business card I copied by mistake. Guess it was paper-clipped to the original. Some moving company."

None of this added up. There had to be more.

"How many pages?"

"Just the one. I must've I stuck it in my back pocket. Found it in my car under a pile of garbage. How perfect is that?" I didn't get the joke. She didn't laugh.

"What do you think it means?"

"How the f.u.c.k should I know?"

"I need it." I caught myself. "Wait. Where was it?"

"In my car. Wadded up in a pair of dirty jeans with the rest of the junk."

I remembered her car, which had been spotless. "Nicki, you have the cleanest car I've ever seen. Especially for a girl."

"That's because before I picked you up, I stopped at the car wash and vacuumed the h.e.l.l out of it, shoved everything in the trunk."

"You didn't have to clean up for me." What would I care?

"I didn't want you knowing I live in my car."

"What do you mean 'you live in your car'?"

"Um, I live in my car."

"Where?"

"In. My. Car."

"I mean, where do you park it?"

"What do you care?"

"We're almost in Canada. It's cold as h.e.l.l out there."

"No s.h.i.t."

"I don't understand. I thought you were staying with an uncle? On break from college?"

"I'm not on break. I flunked out. I'm broke. I owe about a hundred grand in student loans. And I was staying with my uncle-who's not even my uncle, he's my aunt's husband, and she's dead. I got tired of Uncle Bob getting drunk and playing grab-hands."

"You're homeless?"

"I can go back to New York, crawl home to my parents and admit I can't make it on my own, but until then, yeah. I park at rest stops, shower in sinks, eat my breakfast from a vending machine and why do you give a s.h.i.t, Jay? You want that photocopy? Fine. You can have it. Then leave me alone."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't even know I had the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing!"

"No, I mean, that you have nowhere to live."

"Why? So I can move into your house with your wife and kid? Rent a spare bedroom. Gonna save me from the streets?" She scoffed. "Just tell me where you want to meet."

I felt like an a.s.shole. How could I have known?

"Jay?"

"Remember the diner from last night? Meet me there. How long?"

"Give me an hour."

"See you then."

"Wonderful. Can't wait."

I lay on the filthy bed, flipping through stations on a tiny TV, settling on a rerun of My Three Sons, killing time until I had to meet my connection. How many times had my brother done the same thing? Maybe even in this same room. I almost climbed a chair to search for initials carved in the rafters.

The Olympic Diner rested down the Turnpike, in the opposite direction of Duncan Pond. I hadn't broken any laws. No major ones, anyway. I'd popped the tire of the town sheriff, and taken Charlie's car without permission. My friend would never file a stolen car report. No one was scouring Ashton looking for me, my frantic flight at dawn the by-product of an overactive imagination and sleep deprivation. But those Longmont cops . . . If they did find Charlie's car, they'd start to check the motels on the strip. Given personal histories, the Olympic might not have been the smartest choice, either. But Charlie wouldn't tip off Turley. Would he?

Waiting for gra.s.s to grow, time dragged. When everything you want is right in front of you, perspective skews, objectivity wanes. I ached to pay back the hurt.

Hour almost up, I put on my tee shirt, now crispy from overcooking on the radiator. I was about to walk out the door when Nicki rang back and said she needed more time.

"Loose distributor cap. I got it fixed. Leaving now. Give me another sixty."

"No problem." I wanted to scream.

After a few minutes, I couldn't take the solitude any longer. I decided to walk over to the Olympic early. If they were looking for me I wasn't any safer inside the motel room than I was at the diner. Besides, I'd take my chances with Turley and Longmont PD before I suffered another hour alone with my thoughts.

The diner was ten minutes away on foot. Fifteen, tops. I didn't sprint there, but I didn't drag a.s.s either. Slushing through the parking lot, I could see Nicki already waiting in a booth by the window. How much time had I lost?

When I stepped inside the diner, the front bell dinged. For some reason, I flashed on It's a Wonderful Life, that queer bit about an angel earning his wings. A bizarre connection at the strangest time, which made me laugh out loud. Nicki stared up from her seat, along with the pair of factory boys perched at the counter, all eyeing me like I was about to ask for change because I'd run out of gas with my family freezing in the car. I grew hyper-paranoid, scanning blind spots. What did I expect? Someone to spring from the shadows and throw a black hood over my head? Pull it together, little brother.

"You look like s.h.i.t," Nicki said when I sat down.

"Long night."