The Lornea Island Detective Club Page 4

  "You know what happened. We had to disappear. Completely. I couldn't have anyone know where we were."

  The man – Tucker – is suddenly mad. "But I wasn't anyone! I was your best goddamn buddy. I drove you five days across the goddamn country... And you just leave me? You don't even tell me you're going?"

  There's an awkward moment when neither of them speak. I look from one to the other.

  "I couldn't take the risk," Dad replies, in the end. "I had to make a fresh start. Somewhere…"

  "You were worried I was going turn you in? Is that it? You thought I might be tempted by that reward?"

  "No, ‘course not." Dad stops. Then he goes on. "But if you knew where I was, I'd always have that worry... Christine's family getting to you... Putting pressure somehow..."

  Christine is my Mom's name. I've almost never heard Dad even say it.

  "I never liked those stuck-up..." Tucker stops, glancing at me. "Christine's folks. You must've known I'd never betray you to them."

  "Yeah," Dad replies at last. "But I never knew if..." He stops again.

  "What?"

  "If you knew where I was, I’d always have to worry about..."

  "About what?"

  "I don't know. About you getting loaded and shooting your mouth off in some bar."

  Right away Dad looks like he wishes he hadn't said that. Tucker just stares for a long time, then he pulls out a chair and sits down.

  "Oh Come on man," Dad goes on. "I grew up with you. I knew what you were like. I couldn't take that risk? I couldn't take any risk, not with Billy to look after."

  All the anger in Tucker seems to have evaporated. He just shakes his head, and kind of mutters instead.

  "I had your back man! I would've looked after you. Your best fuckin' interests." Then, when he looks up, he's smiling again.

  "Well anyway. I’m here now. So you got a beer for your old buddy?"

  Dad hesitates again, but not for long. Then he goes to the refrigerator and pulls out two cans of Budweiser. He hands one to Tucker, then holds on to the second himself.

  Tucker opens his at once and takes a deep swig. I can see his Adam’s apple bobble as the beer goes down his throat.

  "You know I would never have betrayed you. Never."

  Dad shakes his head again.

  "I'm not saying you would have. I just thought... I dunno, it was hard to think straight at the time. I figured if I could disappear completely, that was my best chance." Dad still hasn't opened his beer, and he taps the top now with his fingernail.

  "I didn't want it to end the way it did. I swear." He doesn't take his eyes from Tucker as he says this.

  Tucker drinks more from his can. His hands are so strong he dents the sides of the beer can, I think he does it without even realizing.

  "It hurt man. Fucking hell. It hurt. I looked for you. I went round every goddamn motel and cheap hotel in the whole of New York state. But..." Again he shrugs. "It's a big place."

  Tucker glances at me and sends me a big yellow smile.

  "Long fucking drive back too."

  No one says anything for a moment. Then Dad does.

  So how'd you find us?"

  Tucker looks surprised by the question at first. But then he laughs.

  “You made the news man! I mean, you were already famous, after your earlier disappearing act, and getting accused of killing the kid…” He smiles at me, then shrugs.

  “All I know is, one night, I'm sittin' watching the TV, mindin' my business. And suddenly there's something on the news about Jamie Stone." He turns back to me.

  "That's your Dad's name, or least it used to be. Until he gets accused of drowning your sister. Trying to drown you. That's why it was news - when he turned up again - ten years later. They were saying he'd got mixed up in some business about a murdered tourist, in some place called Lornea Island. I'd never even fucking heard of it." He stops, laughs bitterly and turns back to Dad. "I guess that was the point, huh? Sam?"

  He grins at Dad, waits for him to answer, but Dad doesn't say a word.

  "I knew it was bullshit. Just like the first time. There's no way Jami... No way Sam would ever do something like that. But all the same. It told me where you were."

  Tucker stops to drink more beer, and Dad just taps on the ring pull on his.

  "So for a while, you make the news every night. About how the police on Lornea Island had you down as this psycho murderer, and then they finally catch you and work out it wasn't you after all. And then – like magic – all the Crab Creek shit gets cleared up too. They talk to Christine and she admits to everything..." He stops and looks at me.

  "That's your mom. You know about her?"

  I don't mean to, but I give a little nod. He watches me, like he doesn't know what to make of it. Then he goes on.

  "Post-partum depression they called it. Real bad case, I guess. Anyhow. There’s my old buddy, suddenly innocent of everything, and I'm thinking, surely this means Jamie's finally gonna put in a call to his best friend in the whole goddamn world? Now there’s nothing to stop him."

  Tucker drinks again and sniffs loudly. Dad doesn’t move.

  "And I wait, because I ain't changed my number or nothing. But I don't get no call. So in the end I think to myself, well – Jamie always was the quiet type, not wanting to make a fuss. So I figure, if I want to see you, I'm gonna have to come here myself, and look you up." He tips his beer can vertical and drains the rest of it, then crushes the can in his fist and bangs it down hard on the table.

  "So here I am!"

  Eight

  Right after that, Dad tells me I have to go upstairs, because of school tomorrow. But it was only 11.00, so I knew it was actually because he wanted to talk to Tucker in private. So then I try to listen to what they were saying from upstairs, but they were talking too quietly. Even when I put the toothbrush glass from the bathroom onto the floor to amplify the sound, I could only hear that they were talking lots, not what they saying. So eventually I had to go to bed.

  When I came downstairs this morning, I was wondering if the whole thing might have been some weird dream, but right away I saw there were loads of beer cans left in the kitchen – much more than Dad would normally leave. From the state of it, it looked like they'd been drinking the whole night. And that made me wonder what time Tucker actually left. And then I saw the lounge was darker than usual, and there was this shape on the couch, with a pair of feet sticking out. So I knew it wasn't a dream. And that he hadn't left at all. He was still here.

  So after that I gathered all the beers cans and put them in the recycling, because otherwise they make the kitchen smell. Then I fixed my breakfast. And then I had the idea to google Tucker, to see if I could find out anything about who he was, and why he might be sleeping in our lounge. But that was no good because he never said what his second name was. So I just searched for Crab Creek, where I was born. I've never been back there, and to be honest I haven't thought about it much, since it's such a long way away, and Dad doesn't like to talk about it and I don't know anybody from there anymore. So I was looking on Google Maps, at how it's 3159 miles or 49.8 hours (without traffic) to get there from Lornea Island (plus the ferry crossing which is four hours). When suddenly Tucker walks into the room.

  He's dressed only in his underwear, and he stops and stretches right in front of me, reaching up and nearly touching the ceiling. He's got muscles all over him. They're in places where I didn't even know you could get muscles. And the tattoos aren't just on his hand, they're all over his body. He's got this big green dragon thing that wraps around from his stomach all the way to his back. It looks like the sort of thing that Mafia hit men have on them.

  "Morning Billy," he says to me. He finishes his stretch then rolls his neck around. His joints crack like microwave popcorn. He starts poking around the kitchen.

  "You got any coffee?"

  I don't answer at first, but when he turns and looks at me I don't feel I have any choice.

  "Yeah." />
  "That's nice. You wanna make some for your dad's old buddy?" He grins at me.

  I hesitate for a moment, but eventually I drop my spoon and push the chair back. He smiles again, then goes over to the window.

  "Whoa... That's a hell of a view you got here," he says.

  I don't answer, pretending all my attention is on the coffee.

  "I didn't see it last night. I heard it. I heard the sea, but it was dark...

  I feel him turning to me. "You're right on the clifftop. You can see for miles."

  I don't know why he's telling me this. It's not like I wouldn't have noticed.

  "You surf?" he asks. "Like your old man?"

  I stiffen a bit at this. I had a bad experience surfing with Dad.

  "No."

  He goes on like I haven't said anything. "We used to go all the time. Your dad and me. When we were kids. We used to skip school if the surf was pumping, hell even if it wasn’t pumping…"

  "Dad isn't good at surfing anymore," I interrupt him. "When he got shot it took away his flexibility."

  Tucker stops. "Yeah. He told me 'bout that. Tough break." He turns away from the window.

  "So what about you?" He asks me. "What do you do?"

  I don't know what he means by this, so I don't answer. Instead I just hand him his coffee, and he winks at me.

  "You got school?" he asks. This should be fairly obvious since I'm thirteen years old and it's a Thursday. What else am I going to do?

  "Yeah."

  "I never much liked school," Tucker says. Sipping his coffee. Then he raises it up, like he's saying it's good. "And school never much liked me neither." He nearly laughs at this but then doesn't. Instead he asks me a question, which takes me a bit by surprise.

  "You mind if I borrow that computer of yours?" He points at my laptop, which I've closed so he doesn't see I've been trying to google him.

  "I just have to check something onli.... Whooa! What the fuck is that?"

  He says that because right at that moment something happens. Steven wakes up. He's sleepy in the mornings and I usually take his box down to breakfast with me. Now he squawks and raises up his wings, then flaps them really hard.

  "Jesus fucking wept!"

  "It's only Steven."

  "Steven? It’s got a name? Fucking hell kid. You've got a seagull for a pet?"

  "He's not a seagull, he's a Herring Gull. And he's not a pet either. It's illegal to keep wild birds as pets in the United States. As soon as he can fly I'll let him go."

  Steven settles down now, and folds his wings back up. Then Tucker leans in close to his box. With a nasty grin he reaches out as if he's going to poke him. Steven watches him with one eye, then just before Tucker actually touches him he flaps his wings really hard and takes off. He’s so big now it makes quite a commotion in our small kitchen, and Tucker jumping backwards doesn’t help. Steven lands on the cabinet where we keep the cups.

  "Fuck me!" Tucker says again, when he recovers a bit. "Looks like he can fly already."

  I don't answer him.

  "Anyway," Tucker grins at me, then looks at my computer again. "You mind? I just gotta check something online."

  I'd forgotten about his question, but now I have to think about it. And as I do, I'm not exactly comfortable about the idea. It's not just that I've just been googling him, there's also a lot on my computer that I wouldn't want anyone to see.

  He slurps at his coffee, the steam hiding his face for a second. I try to think fast.

  "Don't you have a phone you can use?" I say in the end. "We get good reception, even out here."

  "Don't have one." Tucker suddenly grins broadly. "Don't trust those things. You know what I mean?"

  "What?"

  Then I realize it must have been a kind of joke because he puts his hands up, like he's giving up.

  "Hey, sorry I even asked. Don't worry about it. I'll ask your dad when he gets up."

  I'm still trying to work out what he's talking about, when he puts the coffee down with a bang.

  "Say. I gotta take a piss." He sniffs loudly, then walks towards the downstairs bathroom. As he goes I hear him talking to himself.

  "Steven the Seagull. I get it. Like the guy in Under Siege. Man I loved that movie..."

  For a few moments I don't move, I'm still a bit stunned by how strange this all is, that he's still here, wandering round in his underpants and sleeping in our lounge, and I don't know anything about him. I look into the lounge now. I see his clothes draped over the chair, all messy. I'm about to look away, when I get an idea. Whenever I need to get something from Dad's wallet - like cash for groceries, or his credit card - I have to fish it out of his jeans pocket. So If Tucker's jeans are there, then maybe I can get his surname from his credit card? If I do that, then I can google him after all.

  It's just an idea, and I know I probably shouldn't do it, but at the same time, where’s the harm? It’s not like I’m going to take it. And surely I've got a right to know who's in my house?

  There's a sudden, quite unpleasant noise of urine hitting the toilet bowl which means I’ve only got seconds before he’s back. But seconds are all I need, so I get up and run into the lounge. The drapes are drawn and there's a musty smell that isn’t normally there. And I'm worried suddenly, because I can't actually hear the bathroom from here, so I don't know whether he's still weeing or if he's already finished. But I'm committed now, so I reach down to pick up his jeans. I can feel from the weight that there's something in the pockets. But it's awkward, because the material is twisted. And then I don't want to touch the bit around the fly, where his groin goes, because that would really be disgusting.

  So very carefully I untwist the jeans, and straight away I can feel something hard and square in the back pocket. I reach in to pull it out, but then stop in surprise. Because it's not a wallet in my hand. It's a cell phone.

  I stare in surprise. It's a proper one, with a touch screen and everything – not one of those ones that old people like, that can't connect to the internet. But didn't he just tell me he didn't have a phone at all? I try to rewind in my mind. Yeah. He said he didn't trust them, or something like that? If that's the case, why has he got one in his pocket?

  I press the button to wake the phone. I don't know why - he'll probably have it locked with a code, but I do it anyway. But nothing at all happens. It doesn't even light up. After a moment I realize why. The phone's actually switched off. Or maybe the battery is dead. Maybe that's why he wanted to use my computer. But why wouldn't he just tell me the battery was dead on his phone? Or ask if I’ve got a charger, I’ve actually got loads. I decide I should try to switch it on to check, but then I realize I don’t have time for that, since cell phones take ages to boot up. So instead I turn back to his jeans, still confused, but thinking I can still get his surname from his wallet.

  But then, right above me, I hear the stairs squeak. I know the sound, I know exactly what it means. It's Dad, coming down. Normally he'd sleep later than this on a weekday. But I guess because Tucker's here, he's got up early.

  Really I should give up, I've only got seconds before Dad will see me, but I don’t stop. I really want to know now, and I only need one glance at Tucker's credit cards to see what his surname is. So I scrabble with the jeans again, this time pulling out his wallet. I open it up and fumble a plastic card out, all while listening for Dad's voice. The card I pull out is a driver’s license. It's hard to see it in the half light of the room, but it's got a picture on it. Tucker, but in a suit and looking much smarter than he does in real life. I'm already slipping the card back into the wallet as I read the name, getting ready to shove it back into the jeans pocket. But then I stop. Because it doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense at all.

  Tucker's name is Peter Smith.

  I do a double take. I check the picture again, then re-read the name. Peter Smith.

  I shove everything back and drop the jeans back on the floor. I try to walk as calmly back to the kitchen as I can. Bu
t Dad's already there. He gives me a funny look, like he's wondering what I'm doing in there.

  "I left my school bag," I say. Then I sit back down at the kitchen table, hoping he won't say anything.

  I feel his eyes studying me.

  "You know Tucker stayed over last night? You might want to give him a bit of space."

  Then the toilet flushes and Tucker walks back into the room, whistling. Or at least, the man my dad is pretending is called Tucker walks back into the room.

  I told you it was weird.

  Nine

  Before I go to school I take my computer upstairs. I use it to google whether Tucker is a nickname for people called Peter. But before I even finish typing the question, the auto-complete tells me that sometimes Tucker is a nickname, but for people called William or Thomas. But more usually it's just a name. It comes from old English, where it meant someone who made cloth. Or something like that. So when I go downstairs again, and Tucker's in the lounge getting dressed, I ask dad about it.

  "Is Tucker’s real name Peter?" I watch him carefully as I speak, but I don't let him see that I'm that interested.

  "Peter?" Dad frowns at me. "No. Why do you ask that?"

  "Oh, no reason. I just thought it was a nickname."

  Dad keeps looking at me for a few moments but he says nothing. If he’s lying he’s doing it well.

  "OK. Well anyway, I gotta go to school. I'll be late for the bus."

  Dad's still staring at me as I walk out of the door.

  I'm still trying to make sense of this at school. I hardly listen to my morning classes which would matter if I wasn’t a good student and already way ahead of the class. And I’m still thinking about it at lunchtime. But then I check my phone, and there's an email that does totally distract me. In fact it changes everything. This is what it says:

  Dear Sirs,

  I found your agency on the internet and have decided to engage your services. I would like you to investigate the disappearance of my dear husband, Henry Jacobs. I have lived half my life praying that the mystery of what happened to him would be solved. And as I am now nearing my own end, I would like to know I have done everything I can to find out.