Save the Enemy (13 page)

My brain is getting that foggy racing feeling it gets when I’ve got too much information to take in. When I don’t have enough experience to process it in any kind of reasonable way. This feeling has come to me during history tests I’ve neglected to study for (which is almost all of them). It came to me the night my mother was killed. I instantly remember the last thing I said to her as she was walking out the door with Roscoe. It was in response to a fight we’d been having, about
why I refused to study for my history tests. She’d walked out saying she needed to cool off before we both said things we’d regret. And I shouted that I hated her. She said I shouldn’t say that unless I really meant it. I shouted that I hated her again. And I
did
hate her right then. But then she died.

Now this.

“So what do we do?” I ask P.F. I wipe my eyes and sniff. “What do we do?”

“Well.” He drums his damp fingers on the notebook. That all-important, completely useless notebook. Finally he sighs.

“I suppose we have a couple of options here. The one I’d recommend is that you and Ben go somewhere safe until Ben finishes making all his entries. Which he should do quickly. Time is running out.”

Ben keeps not making eye contact, staying in his own bubble. Then he says “Yes, that’s what Mom says, too. Time is running out.”

Ben changes out of
his tiny
Star Wars
pajamas and into one of Dad’s gigantic, coffee-stained T-shirts. It hangs down to his thighs. And, of course, a pair of grey polyester pants. And sneakers that squeak below the hem. He carries his polished briefcase.
This
is the Trask sibling who is going to make it big.

I fetch P.F. his shabby coat and find Pete. He is still in the living room, the ukulele in his lap, though he isn’t playing. His left hand fingers the frets, but he’s glancing around, antsy. I have to admit: seeing him still here, not talking about ghosts or assassinations or kidnappings, I am so grateful that my eyes start to burn. My throat tightens. I tell him that we are going out for a little bit. I do not say that we are going to a local copy shop. I do not say that P.F.
wants his own edition of Ben’s freakish scrawls—what I’ve come to think of as Ben’s “dream diary”: dictation from our dead mother, pertaining to reprehensible acts committed by our missing dad.

“Want me to come?” Pete asks.

He looks like he’d like to come. He looks a little like he’s jumping out of his skin.

“Nah, you wait,” I say.

“I’d rather not. I’ll drive.”

“Let’s walk,” says P.F. “I could use the fresh air. I agree with Zoey. Pete, you should stay. There should be someone in the house to scare off the smoker, in case the smoker tries to come back. You might even get a look …” His voice trails off.

Why would the smoker be scared of us?
I wonder. But then it occurs to me that the kidnappers can only scare us in our absence. They can only scare us by leaving something threatening. They certainly wouldn’t want to reveal their identities.

Pete, perhaps getting it too, nods and picks up the ukulele.

Minus Pete, we head over to the copy shop. How amazing that in this day and age there are still copy shops. Every time I spot a cigarette smoker on the way, I feel my stomach knot up more tightly. That dude pushing the baby carriage, he could be the kidnapper. (Who smokes in front of an infant except the truly evil?) That old homeless-looking lady who’s always walking up and down the street muttering to herself, it could be her. I keep glancing over at P.F. to see if he is responding to any of these people, but he’s not. He’s just humming to himself, too quietly for me to make out the tune. We probably look like an awkward little family here, just out for a stroll: me, my brother, and P.F.

Inside, fluorescent lighting makes everyone look a little wearier. We ask the middle-aged guy at the counter to make a copy of the notebook. He seems too old for this kind of job. Maybe it’s his store; maybe he’s not just the clerk. I hope he doesn’t ask what the notebook is. Or maybe I hope that he
does
ask, so I can unload. Which is not a good idea.

“You want a copy of the cover, too, or just what’s inside?” the guy asks.

I look to P.F. to answer.

“Just what’s inside,” he says.

While we wait, I ask P.F. if he’s religious.

“I grew up culturally Jewish, but secular,” he answers.

“We grew up culturally half-Jewish,” I tell him.

“Your mom mentioned that, I think.”

“So you don’t believe in … life after death?” I ask. “I mean, not just when it comes to ghosts. You think when it’s over it’s over?”

P.F. is drumming his fingers on the counter. He stops then starts again.

“It’s hard to say,” he says. “I’ve called myself agnostic for most of my life. But then things like
this
happen, and wouldn’t it be nice to believe in divine justice …? What about you?”

“Oh, I don’t have a well-developed worldview on this issue,” I say. “Dad does. He says that gods are for idiots.”

“What do you think, Ben?” P.F. asks.

Ben is busy examining the inside of his nose with an extended index finger. He removes the finger and examines it, then wipes his finger on the counter. Again, I remind myself that
this
is the Trask kid headed for greatness.
This. This one
. P.F. really could be like our new dad.

“I don’t think it matters,” Ben says.

“You think Mom’s ghost telling you to write down these weird details is unrelated to life after death?” I sound angry. Maybe I am. “Or God? Or religion? Or any of it?”

“You think Mom is God?” Ben asks. “I haven’t seen anything suggesting Mom is God.”

P.F. laughs. “You’re a good kid,” he says to Ben. “Smart.”

“Were you in love with my mom?” I ask. “Were you … having an affair?”

P.F. laughs again. “I think everyone was a little in love with your mom,” he says. “It was hard not to be. But, no, we were not having an affair. Never. Your mother was very much in love with your father. You should know that,” he says. “Every couple has trying times, of course.”

“But how did you know her?” I ask. “We didn’t have any friends here.” I feel so small and sad saying that.

“Your parents have friends. You don’t know them?” he says.

“No,” I say.

The middle-aged guy comes back with our copy. The papers are in a manila envelope, collated with a silver paperclip, the notebook rubber-banded to the envelope.

“Seventeen twenty-five,” he says, handing me the package. I give P.F. the copies and hand the original back to Ben, who slips it into his briefcase.

P.F. pays. He hands me the change. Then he opens his large leather wallet and hands me more cash: some twenties, a few fives, two hundred dollar bills. I see that there is more cash inside that lush pouch. He must see me see this, because he opens the wallet again and hands me the rest. The Political Consultant business must be a good one. P.F. should buy himself a new coat. As he puts the wallet away I also catch a little peek at some photos in cracked plastic.

“Pictures of your kids?” I ask.

“I don’t have kids,” he says. “My wife and I tried for a couple of years. Her womb didn’t like my sperm.”

Ben nods, as if this makes perfect sense to him.

On the short walk home, P.F. tells us that he needs us to get the rest of the information together quickly. If the kidnappers are giving us until Friday, he says, that means we need to have everything ready long before that deadline.

“It’s not up to me,” Ben says.

“Do your best, kid,” says P.F. He pauses at his sedan. For the first time, I notice that unlike his clothes, it is shiny. Pristine. “Do you need me to find you somewhere to go where you’ll be safe?”

“We have someplace,” I say. I leave it at that. I imagine Ben knows exactly what I’m thinking. P.F. doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t need to know because I still don’t know who he is or why he seems to care so much about us. A part of me still thinks he may be the one who took my Dad in the first place. Maybe he’s so sweaty because he’s jonesing for a cigarette.

“What are you thinking, Zoey?” he asks.

“Do you smoke?”

He offers that sad, jowly, endearing smile. “I tried it once. Didn’t take.” With that, he opens the driver’s side door and tosses his copy of Ben’s dream diary into the backseat. “Be safe. Promise me that you’ll be safe, and speedy.”

“It’s not up to us,” Ben says again, as if P.F. is really fucking dumb.

“Try,” P.F. says. He wipes his coat sleeve across his forehead. Then he closes the door and drives off. We stare until the taillights have vanished and the motor has faded into the rhythm of the crickets.

Back at the house, my brother hurries upstairs for some
“decompression time,” as Mom used to put it. Pete is on the couch. He still seems antsy, not that I can blame him. I sit beside him. If he’s looking for an excuse to say goodbye in a way that won’t make him look like a total dick, he’s wasting his time. He could storm out and slam the door without a word, and I still wouldn’t think he was a total dick. I would think the opposite. I would think,
Thank you for sticking it out as long as you did
.

We turn on the TV. We watch the last half of a medical procedural. I check my cell phone and find that it’s not working. It’s charged, but it’s not working. Dad probably forgot to pay the bill. The company wouldn’t shut it off this quickly. Except Dad probably forgot to pay the bill for a few
months
. So now we’re stuck. Really stuck. Really fucked.

“I never get to watch TV,” Pete says. He rests his head on my shoulder. “They don’t let the boarders.”

I’d like not to panic, and I’d like to ask Pete two questions: Would he want to kiss me and protect me from all the bad things? And would he want ditch school for a few days to drive me and Ben to Rhode Island?

I only work up the nerve to ask him the latter.

“Rhode Island?” Pete asks.

“My aunt and uncle are there. Ben will be safe there until we figure this thing out.”

“What
thing
,” he says. It’s the first exasperation he’s shown. I’ve assumed he wasn’t very curious about what was going on with this P.F. fellow and whatnot, and that’s why he hasn’t asked questions. But maybe … maybe he’s just waiting for me to feel comfortable enough to open up to him. Which I’m not, not yet.

I sigh. Then again, even more loudly. “You’re better off not knowing,” I say to him. “Please, trust me.” I’m mimicking P.F.’s language, I realize after I’ve said this. What does this Political Consultant know that he’s not telling me?

Pete stands up from the couch and heads out to the foyer, fumbling for his cell phone. When the front door closes behind him, a big part of me wonders if that’s the last I’ll ever see of Pete Ashburn. I wouldn’t blame him for bolting. I would more than understand. What would his parents say
about all this? What would his twin sister, Abby? Or maybe he’s calling that Anne girl right now. If I were her, I’d tell him: “Dude, what are you even there for to start with when I have such nice hair?”

The seconds tick by. I mute the TV. Pete, finally, reappears. He shifts on his feet and runs his hands through his hair.

“I can go,” he says. “But I won’t. Not until you explain to me what in the hell is going on here, Zoey.”

Oh, would it were that I had an answer, that I had the guts, even, to tell him what it is I do know. Or what I think I know. I take a deep breath, then start coughing. That lasts about a minute. Pete gets up, goes into the kitchen, comes back with a glass of water. I drink it. Then I have to pee. I go pee, come back, find Pete pacing around the living room. He gives me a look that seems to be imploring, and hostile, and expectant, and caring, and warm, and blank, all at once. His curly hair has grown just a tad too shaggy. I wish I could just go tug on it. I can’t. I can’t.

“Please don’t make me,” I say.

Pete says nothing. His face grows more blank. I imagine him leaving. I imagine me and Ben trying to manage this,
this
, alone. In even more danger. Pete is the closest thing I have to a friend here. I have no one. I have to try.

“This is going to sound crazy,” I begin, watching Pete’s face warily. His eyes brighten, just a touch. He wants me to go on. He has no idea what he’s in store for.

“I should start by saying that I don’t believe in ghosts,” I say, trying again. This story needs too much preamble. This lunatic story. This dangerous, confusing, lunatic story.

“I do,” Pete says.

“You do?” I say.

“Yes,” he says.

The old me would have started calling him an imbecile, especially if Dad were around to hear and approve. The new me is just grateful.

“Mom’s ghost has been visiting Ben at night,” I say very quickly. Then I swallow and speak a little slower. “He says she has. He says she’s been telling him these initials and dates, and telling him to write them down in a notebook. A ‘J-File’ or something, which it turns out is … I don’t know. Valuable or something.”

“To who?” Pete asks. “Like on eBay?”

I hesitate. I thought the ghost part of this conversation was going to be tough, but now that I’ve gotten to what comes next, I realize that talking about the mysterious and dubious circumstances relating to how the J-File has come into existence was comparatively easy.

“Dad’s not just on a trip,” I say. “He’s been kidnapped. The kidnappers want the notebook, the J-File.”

I take another breath. I can get away with not telling Pete this last part. But I want to tell him. I want to have someone to confide in. I wish Molly were here and that we were still friends, but she’s not here and he is.

“It’s worse than you think,” I say. “I think Mom is telling Ben about people who Dad has killed. I think that’s what’s in the notebook. Records of Dad’s … assassinations. It’s so awful. Pete, it’s so awful. I didn’t know this is who my dad was. Who he is.”

“Why aren’t you giving them the notebook, then?” Pete asks. “Are you not sure if you actually want your dad back now?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I want Dad back.” I hadn’t been sure until I said it, actually. But now I’m sure. I want Dad back. Assassin Dad. I’d laugh at the idea of it, if everything in the
universe were back to how things were in December. Or even four days ago.