Last Chance (18 page)

“I know,” she said. “I'm on my way to the police station.”

“But what happened? Why did they arrest him again?”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the phone before my mother said, “The man died.”

No wonder Nick had looked so dazed.

“But you said his injuries weren't life threatening,” I said.

“They weren't. But the man had a preexisting condition. The trauma of the hit-and-run triggered a heart attack. At least, that's what they're saying.”

“But that's not Nick's fault,” I said.

“He was driving that car, Robyn. He hit the man.”

“But—”

“Robyn, I have to go. I'll see you at home later, okay?”

I sat silent at my desk for a few moments after I hung up. Then the shouting began. I think everyone in the shelter heard it.

“A killer!” said an angry voice—the chairman of the animal shelter's board of directors. “You have a killer in this program, and you didn't think to alert me to that fact?”

“You make it sound worse than it is, Harold,” Kathy said.

“The boy hit someone with a car,” Harold said. “A
stolen
car. Now that person is dead. Criminal negligence causing death—isn't that what the police officer said?”

“The person—the victim—” Kathy seemed to say the word only reluctantly, “was injured in the accident, but—”

“He died,” Harold said again. “If the authorities didn't think his death was related to the hit-and-run, they wouldn't have charged the boy. And of all things, to have the police show up when the Archers were here for their tour!”

“I'm sorry,” Kathy said. “But I had no idea that was going to happen—”

Harold cut her off. “That boy doesn't belong in the program. He is not to return under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

“But he's made such progress,” Kathy said. “And he's essentially a good kid. He does reasonably well in school, according to Ed Jarvis. He's seen as a leader of sorts among the other boys at his group home. He has a part-time job. And he's been volunteering here for—”

“He
volunteers
here?”

“One day a week,” Kathy said.

“Not anymore,” the chairman. “He's out of the RAD program and out of the volunteer program. Do you understand?”

 

. . .

My mother didn't pick me up that day—no surprise. Instead, my father was waiting for me in the parking lot. As I crossed the lawn toward him, I spotted something half-hidden behind one of the shrubs that lined the building. It was a backpack. I would have recognized it anywhere. It was Nick's. He always had it slung over one shoulder. He must have forgotten about it when he was arrested. I scooped it up. At first I was going to run back inside and give it to Kathy. She could give it to Mr. Jarvis, and he would see that it was returned to Nick. Then I thought, no, I'll give it to my mother instead. She can get it directly to Nick. I scooped it up and took it with me to my father's car.

On the way home, I kept thinking about Nick looking back at Orion while he was being led away by the police. He was probably worried about what would happen to Orion now. When we finally got upstairs, my father tossed his jacket onto the closest chair and flopped down on a couch.

“What's up, Robbie?” he said. “And don't tell me nothing. I've known you your whole life. I can tell the happy, everything's-coming-up-roses Robbie from the unhappy, something's-definitely-wrong Robbie.”

I sank down into a chair opposite him. “It's Nick,” I said.

“The kid at the shelter whom you're not interested in?”

I nodded.

“What about him?”

“He was arrested.”

“Oh?”

I told my father everything that had happened. When I had finished, he said, “I'm not sure I understand. You had him pegged as a thief, but you're surprised that he went joyriding?”

I knew it didn't make sense to him. It didn't make sense to me, either. That was the problem.

“I heard Kathy tell him he was doing well in the RAD program,” I said. “And he loves that dog. He was trying to talk his aunt into adopting him. He was counting the days until he could get out of that group home and go live with his aunt. So why, when he finally gets a chance to get out for a weekend, would he do something so stupid?”

“Oh, I see,” my father said. “You want logical. You want to know the number one thing I learned while I was a police officer?”

Even if I didn't, I was pretty sure he was going to tell me.

“People don't always act logically,” he said. “I once arrested a guy who had never done anything wrong, never even collected a parking ticket. When he found a wallet on the sidewalk stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, he returned it to the owner just like that, didn't even accept a reward.”

“What did you arrest him for?”

“For taking a baseball bat and smashing every window in his neighbor's car. And after he'd totaled the windows, he started in on the hood, the trunk, the doors. Dimpled the whole car—with the neighbor watching. He even knew that the neighbor had called the police.”

“Why would someone who was so law-abiding do something like that?”

“The guy with the baseball bat suffered from insomnia. The neighbor worked nights as a bartender. His car needed a new muffler. He would pull into the driveway at two or three in the morning with his engine roaring. The guy had talked to him a couple of times. He'd even filed a complaint, and the neighbor was cited. But the neighbor didn't fix the muffler. Meanwhile, the guy's insomnia was getting worse and worse. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He snapped. Decided to deal with the car himself. Not logical, maybe. But it was the end of the muffler problem.”

“What does that have to do with Nick?”

“Maybe there are other things going on in his life. Things you don't know about.”

“Maybe,” I said.

My father was probably right. Maybe Nick was like Antoine. Maybe he did stupid things for stupid reasons. Maybe something had happened while he was staying with his aunt on the weekend, and maybe, because of that, he had acted impulsively.

“Tell you what, Robbie, when I get a chance, I'll talk to someone on the force. I'll see what he can find out. Okay?”

My phone rang. It was my mother. I listened to what she had to say. Then I told my father, “Looks like I'm staying the night.”

“Is everything okay?”

“She has to work late, and she has an early court date. She says you're going to have to drive me to the shelter, so I might as well stay here.”

“Do you have everything you need, or do you want me to run you home?”

“I'll be okay,” I said. “I've got some clean clothes here.”

Halfway through dinner, my phone rang again. This time it was Morgan. I took my phone into the bedroom that my father calls mine, but that also doubles as his guest room. My purse and Nick's backpack were on the bed where I had dropped them after my mother called.

“Three more days,” Morgan said. “I'll be home Sunday night.”

“Nick got arrested
again
,” I said. “The man he hit died.”

“You're kidding!”

“They're charging him with criminal negligence causing death.”

“He just goes from bad to worse, huh?”

“I still don't get it, Morgan. It was such a stupid thing to do.”

“Come on, Robyn, you think that just because Nick D'Angelo makes nice to a dog, he's all of a sudden a good guy? There's a reason he's in that program, isn't there?” She sounded just like my father. And just like my father, she was right. “You don't even know what he did to get locked up in the first place, other than it was a violent crime,” she went on. “Maybe he ran over someone else. Maybe he's a serial hit-and-runner, and you just don't know it. Why don't you ask your mom? She'd know.”

But would she tell me? I glanced at my bed.

“He carries a backpack with him all the time,” I said slowly. “You know, like some girls always carry a purse.”

“Yeah?” Morgan said. “So?”

“So I have it.”

There was a small pause. Then Morgan said, “You have Nick D'Angelo's backpack? What did you do, steal it?”

“Of course not,” I said indignantly. “He forgot to take it when he got arrested. I'm going to give it to my mother so that she can give it back to him.”

“Is there anything interesting in it?” Morgan said.

“I don't know.”

“You mean you haven't looked?”

“No!”

“But you're going to, right?”

“No, I'm not!” I said. Except I wasn't sure that was true. I was dying to look, and Morgan probably knew it.

“Open it,” she said.

“I don't know—”

“Sure you do, Robyn. That's why you brought it up in the first place. You want to see what's inside, and you want someone to give you permission to look.
I
give you permission. Besides, who's going to know?”

“I will.”

“So will I. But I won't tell. Come on, open it up. Tell me what's inside.”

I stared at my bed again and at the backpack on it. How would I feel if Nick picked up my purse and went through all the personal stuff I kept in it?

“I really shouldn't.”

“Sure you should,” Morgan said. “You keep telling me that you don't understand him. Well, here's your chance to get some insight. Go ahead, open it up.”

I started to drag it toward me. Then I stopped. It was Nick's private property. It wouldn't be right to poke through it.

“Don't be such a wuss, Robyn,” Morgan said. “It's not like you're going to take anything. You're just going to satisfy your curiosity.”

I stared at the backpack and thought about Nick with his purple-blue eyes and the scar that cut across his right cheek. Nick, who dressed all in black and who worked hard at trying to make people think he didn't care about anything. But he never quite pulled it off. He cared about Orion. He'd sounded like a little boy when he'd begged Kathy to let him take Orion home for the weekend. He cared about the guys in his group. He had even cared about that little girl who he introduced to Orion. What did a guy like that carry around with him every day?

“Okay, I'm unzipping it now,” I said.

“Way to go, Robyn.”

I glanced at the door, half afraid that my dad would walk in and see what I was doing. But he hadn't even mentioned the backpack. He probably assumed it was mine.

I peeked inside.

“Well?” Morgan said.

“I see a big book.” I pulled it out. It was the book he had been reading the time we'd had lunch together. “It's all about dogs.” Everything you need to know about them, according to the title. “Also a notebook.” I flipped through it. Nick's handwriting was small and scratchy, but I managed to decipher it. “Looks like notes that he took from the book and stuff that he's learned about dogs from the RAD program,” I said.

“What else?”

I pulled out more items. “A pack of gum.” Two pieces were missing. “A rawhide bone and . . .
Eeew!
What are these?” I held up a clear-plastic package and read the label. “Dried pigs' ears! Gross.”

“Dogs love those,” Morgan said. “Missy would eat pigs' ears morning, noon, and night if I let her.” Missy was Morgan's black Lab. “What else?”

“A pair of socks.” They were rolled in a ball and smelled clean. “Something in wrapping paper.” The paper was covered with balloons and cakes with candles on them and was loosely wrapped around a brand-new dog collar. I told Morgan about it and went on,“An apple, slightly bruised but still edible, and a can of warm Coke.”

“That's it?” Morgan sounded disappointed. “Did you check all the pockets?”

I hadn't. I told myself I shouldn't. But I felt around anyway.There was something in a small zippered pocket. I pulled it out.

“Oh,” I said.

“What?” Morgan said. “Did you find something?”

I stared at the small slips of paper that had been clipped together.

“What is it?” Morgan said. “What did you find?”

“Transaction slips,” I said.“From an ATM.You know, printouts of recent activity from a bank account. Six of them,” I counted, “going back—” I checked, “about six months.”

“And?”

I skimmed the slips. There were regular deposits of fifty dollars a week, week in and week out, for over a year—and regular, much smaller withdrawals. It seemed like a lot of allowance money for a kid in a group home. Then I remembered Kathy saying that Nick had a part-time job. I looked at the transaction slips again. Two weeks ago, the balance had been over fifteen hundred dollars. Ten days ago, it dropped to less than five hundred dollars. Suddenly I felt terrible.

“I'm putting everything back, Morgan. This is wrong.”

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Robyn?”

Nick had withdrawn a lot of money—just before I saw him pressing a wad of bills through the fence to his friend Joey.

“Maybe he didn't give Joey stolen money,” Morgan said. “Maybe he gave him his own money.”

Oh, this was so wrong.

“I gotta go, Morgan,” I said.

“You didn't take anything, Robyn. You didn't do anything bad. You were just looking.”

“I'll call you soon,” I said.

I closed my phone and started putting everything back exactly as I had found it. The big dog book was the last thing to go in. I opened it before returning it to the backpack. There was Nick's name, in big black letters and, under it, an inscription:
To Nick, a dog's best friend, from Stella.
Stella, the dog trainer. She had dated her inscription. She had given the book to Nick over three weeks ago. And judging from how much highlighting he'd done, he had been studying the contents carefully. In the section called “Caring for Your Dog,” he had put little check marks beside the recommended basic dog care equipment and had underlined what to feed dogs—and what to avoid feeding them.