You Don't Know About Me (23 page)

“That's what I'm scared of.”

I couldn't take my eyes off his wrist. “We gotta get you to a hospital.”

He turned to me with a clenched expression. “
We
aren't doing anything. The cops show up, your trip's over, I'm
busted. And I sure don't wanna be busted with a teenage kid in my RV.”

“But—”

His right hand flew in front of my face, his finger nearly poking my eye. “Be quiet and listen.” His hand dropped to the console as he winced. “We've had our little debates, but this isn't one. You're gonna grab your backpack, a couple water bottles, the flashlight, your sleeping bag, and the bike off the back. You're gonna walk off the road, hide the bike in the brush, then walk into the brush until you're outta sight. Someone's gonna come along, get me to the hospital, and I'll deal from there. Tomorrow you'll get on the bike and ride to Notus; it's less than twenty miles. Trip's over, Billy. It's been a great ride. Now get going.” He jerked his head toward the back of the camper. “That way, it's probably safer.”

I looked at his hand still caught in the steering wheel. “Are you gonna be alright?”

“Don't worry, I've had plenty of broken bones. Now get going before someone shows up.”

I grabbed my pack and scrambled over the console. I didn't have to go far for the water bottles. I stepped on one. In the crash, the fridge door had flown open and bottles and jars had slid to the front of the aisle. I walked up the tilted aisle. It was weird, like walking up a slide in a playground. I pulled the flashlight from the netting over the couch and grabbed my sleeping bag. I opened the side door. It flapped open and banged against the side of the camper.

I looked back down the aisle. Ruah was watching me in the rearview.

“If you're ever in Cincinnati, look me up,” he said. “I owe you a ball game.”

I couldn't see anything but his eyes. “Will you be playing in it?”

“Dunno, kid. Now get going.”

I dropped out the door and landed on dusty ground. I looked for the shape in the road that would be the antelope. There was nothing. The back of the camper stuck up in the air like a crash-landed spaceship. I could barely reach the Trek and undo the straps. I wanted to tell Ruah that the antelope had only been grazed and had gotten away, but headlights loomed down the road.

I pushed the bike into the brush. When I heard the car, I looked back. Ruah had turned on the flashers. The car slowed. I dropped the bike behind a bush and ducked down as the car pulled over.

I watched a man get out of the car; a woman on the passenger side stayed inside. The man talked to Ruah for a bit, and it looked like he was helping him do something. The camper's flashers turned off. The man helped Ruah out; his left arm was now in a sling made from a towel. In his right hand, he carried a book. I would've sworn it was a Bible.

As Ruah moved to the back of the car, he looked toward me, then got in. Before they drove away, I saw the glow of a cell phone in the woman's hands. I didn't know if she was calling a doctor, a hospital, or a tow truck. It made me realize I still had Ruah's cell phone.

I sat for a while, watching the stars come out. Only two
other cars drove by. I was surprised how calm I felt. The crash had gotten me all revved, but I was back to a low idle. It felt weird not to be scared. I remembered what Mom always told me when she left me alone at night. “Don't be afraid. Your Heavenly Father is here in the house, looking after you.” He was in this house, too. The ceiling was just higher.

I turned the flashlight on, climbed up the slope, and looked for a flat spot to sleep. I didn't find one, but I did find a barbed-wire fence. It stopped my climb. I scooped out a level patch in the dirt and got in the sleeping bag. The stars were even thicker than at Lake Scott.

The most awesome thing was the silence. It was so still and intense it seemed to make a noise. I told myself it was the sound of God breathing. I knew He was close. How could He not be? That's the thing about God. When He sends you a sign, like He sent me that morning, and you don't read it right, He comes back to make it
real
clear. That morning, He'd sent messengers disguised as prisoners emptying garbage cans. I'd listened at first, then twisted His message into something else; I'd climbed back into Giff, the great white trash can. God doesn't like being misunderstood. It pisses Him off. So He grabbed the can and shook me out.

Before going to sleep I thanked Him for tossing me out gently. And I asked Him to do two things: (1) Heal Ruah's wrist so he could play baseball again, and (2) heal his gay heart.

I woke at sunrise, and jumped out of my sleeping bag. Beyond the highway, sage steppe reached to a faraway ridge of dry hills. The camper was still sticking its nose wheelie in the gully.

I ran down the hill to see if the cops had come in the night. But there was no orange sticker like the kind they leave on the window or mirror of disabled vehicles. I wondered if Ruah had even called the cops. I climbed into the camper and checked the glove compartment and the console. All the paperwork—the rental agreement, the registration—was gone. That was why Ruah had taken his Bible; he'd hidden the paperwork in it.

As I walked back up to get my stuff, I saw what was beyond the barbed-wire fence: a long slope up a high hill. The steep was spotted with thinning sagebrush till it got bald at the top. I bent through the fence and climbed. I didn't see a critter or snake all the way up.

On top, I found a big patch of dust. I took off my sneaks and walked to the middle of it. I dropped a foot in the soft dust and lifted it away. A perfect impression of my foot stared back at me.
Adam was here
.

As far as I know, that footprint, only seen by soaring hawks and eagles, is still there. And will be, then-now-forevermore.

*    *    *

I packed up and mounted the Trek. According to my GPS, I was 15.5 miles from Notus. I could ride it in an hour. I started fast to put distance between me and the camper before any vehicles spotted me. Luckily it was early; there was no traffic.

After a few miles, I left the highway for county roads as I followed the GPS's compass arrow north. If I'd had a mountain bike instead of a roadie, I could've gone off-road. That would've been awesome, especially since I was back in mint-farm country. Bombing through mint fields, crashing in the mint, and bringing home a mint Christmas tree would've been a first ever. But riding road wasn't bad either. When your lungs are sucking mint clouds you don't
grind
up a steep, you
fly
it.

I crossed a small river and some railroad tracks, then hit a highway that took me into Notus. It was a dusty little town, with boarded-up stores and one main intersection where a couple places still survived: a restaurant-market and an auto parts store.

The compass pointed to a square white building between the road and the railroad tracks that ran past a grain elevator. Next to the white building was an old fire truck with faded red paint. It said
NOTUS VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPT
. on the door.

As I rode toward the building, my GPS raced down to under 70 feet. I couldn't believe it was going to be this easy. I got off the Trek and leaned it against the fire truck. I was 30 feet from the cache. I walked around the building,
which turned out to be a tiny museum all shut up. On the GPS's screen, the feet ticked higher and the arrow swung back toward my bike.

I went back to the fire truck and pulled out the last page of Chapter 32. I reread the clue poem.

I had to laugh. If you're going to hell, go in a fire truck. I walked around the truck. The back bed, where they used to put ladders, was empty. So was a storage box in a side panel. I tried to unscrew the caps on the hose connectors. They were rusted shut. Then I remembered the last lines. I yanked out the page.

I went around to the truck's gas cap, opened it, got the flashlight out of my pack, and shined it down the hole. Nothing but an old spiderweb snaring a couple dead beetles. I racked my brain for what else “fuel” might mean. I drew a blank. I rechecked my GPS. I was inside 15 feet; I was right on top of it. I looked under the truck, around the gas tank: nothing. I jumped up on the running board. The
ladder beds were empty, but the two hose spools behind the cab were coiled with cracked hoses. And there, behind the spools, was what I was looking for. Two old five-gallon gas cans.

The blast of a train whistle almost knocked me off the running board. I looked down the tracks. Luckily, the train wasn't slowing down.

I moved down the running board, lifted one of the gas cans, and shook it. Even if there was something in it I wouldn't have heard it. The train began thundering by. I waved to the engineer like I was just a kid checking out a fire truck.

Turning back to the gas cans, I spotted a small, one-gallon can tucked down between the two big ones. It was the perfect size for a book. I lifted it out—it was heavy. I unscrewed the cap and shined the flashlight inside. The glimmer of ziplock plastic bounced back. I had it!

“Hello!” a voice shouted over the train.

I dropped the gas can and flashlight. My already banging heart almost blew a fresh coat of red paint on the fire engine. I spun around and tripped off the running board.

A few feet away, a man with a fancy straw hat and a white beard stood behind the open door of his car. He grinned at me as the back of the train roared past. “Sorry to scare ya!”

“It's o-okay,” I stammered, checking him for a badge and a gun. Whoever he was, he didn't have either. At least, not showing. My face felt ten times whiter than his beard. He probably thought I was an albino.

“I drove by and saw you studying what looked like a GPS device,” he said, still grinning. “Are you a geocacher?”

I rubbed my face to try and get some blood in it and buy time for a lie. “No, I'm doing a school project on old fire-fighting equipment.”

His face fell, wiping away his smile. “So you're a muggle.”

“What's a muggle?”

“Someone who doesn't know about geocaching.”

“Right, that's me, a muggle.”

He clucked in disappointment—“Too bad”—and slid back into his car. “You don't know what you're missing.”

I wanted to say,
You don't know what
you're
missing
, but I kept my mouth shut.

He closed his door. “Well, good luck with your project.”

After he left I realized how exposed the site was. There were cars and trucks passing and the auto parts store across the street had a view of the fire truck.

I jumped back on the running board, lifted the small gas can, hid it behind my body, and wedged it in the sleeping bag bungee-corded on my backpack. The whole time something kept clunking around inside the can. It
had
to be the book.

As I got on the bike a thought gave me major cranial disharmony. How does a book get inside a gas can?

I rode toward the restaurant-market, which was called Kings. Several pickups were parked in front and on the side street. I was starving, but first I needed a place to get the cache out of the gas can without being seen. I spotted an old phone booth half hidden by an ice machine in front of Kings. I headed for it but some young guys came out of the restaurant lighting cigarettes.

I veered down the side street and swung into an empty parking lot behind Kings. I jumped off and leaned the Trek against the back corner of the building, near a Dumpster. The gas can slipped out easily from the sleeping bag. For the first time, I noticed a black line around the middle of the can. Most gas cans didn't come with black waistlines. It was plumber's tape. I peeled it off. Underneath was a thin seam. That's how you get a book inside a gas can. You cut the can in half and reseal it.

I pulled on the handle. The top half slid off. What I saw inside made my throat go tight. No book. Just ziplock bags. I dropped to the ground and lifted out the two bags with a few new pages and money. Whatever was in the third bag was much bigger than a plastic trinket. It was what had given the can weight. It looked like the heel of a shoe but was made from some kind of metal, like bronze.

When I pulled the bag out, it got weirder. The other side
of the bronze heel had small dark circles in it that made a cross. I didn't have a clue what that meant. Maybe Huck got religion, saved Jim body and soul, and didn't go to hell after all.

But I didn't care where Huck's story was going, I wanted to know where
I
was going. I pulled out the new pages: Chapter 33. That was all, one chapter, six pages, no highlights, nothing—till the last page. It was more than a highlight. Scotch-taped to the bottom of the page was a business card. The logo on the card was the same as the metal object: a boot heel with a cross in it. My hand was shaking so hard I couldn't read the card. I held the page against my thigh. The jiggling letters steadied.

That's where he had lived. That's where
X
marked the spot. That's where I'd find
my heart's desire
!

I was so excited I almost didn't feel the hard shape under the card. I started to flip the card over but a loud
hoot
sounded around the corner of the building. Thinking it was the guys who were smoking, I jumped up and grabbed the bike. As I pushed it into a space between the building and the Dumpster, I crammed the pages and the bags into my pockets. I didn't want the guys catching me doing weird stuff behind their hangout. Good news: nobody came
around the corner. Bad news: the bike got away from me and jackknifed around the back of the Dumpster.