The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney (16 page)

That “but” seemed to hang in the air for a long time as Jack kept his eyes fixed on the monitor and chewed his bottom lip, clearly trying to make up his mind. After a long moment he said, “Okay, I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone else.” He turned to give me a fierce look. “
Nobody
. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay,” he said. “See, I have this brother.”

He stopped, as if replaying what he had just said. “He ran away last year. Or—well, he's gone. Disappeared.” He was staring down at the floor as he said this, but I still tried to look as if this were news to me.

“Oh. That's terrible,” I said. “What happened?” The words sound stilted and false to my ears, but Jack didn't seem to notice.

He shrugged and began pushing the toe of his sneaker back and forth on the rug. “I don't know. Nobody does. I got up one morning . . . it was a Saturday. Luke—that's my brother—likes to sleep in on weekends. I made myself some cornflakes. I played a couple of video games. My parents came downstairs.”

He frowned slightly. Maybe he had replayed this memory so many times—for the reporters, for the police, for himself—that he was just tired of telling the story again. “Then it was time to eat lunch, and Luke still hadn't come downstairs. So Mom went up to check his room. His bed was still made. It didn't look as if he had slept there. His backpack was gone.”

I found that I was sitting on the edge of my chair, even though I knew, only too well, how this story ended.

“Anyway. He never came back.”

I stood up abruptly. “So where do you think he is?” As soon as I said it, I knew it was a stupid question, but I didn't care. Because Jack shot me a withering look, which was a hundred times better than looking as if he were about to cry.

“I have no idea,” he said, adding, very slowly, as if speaking to someone who didn't understand the language, “that's the problem.”

His scornful tone would have made me blush a week ago. But now I ignored it and walked over to the maps. “That's what these are for,” I said, tracing a road with my finger. “You're trying to find him.”

He gave me a sidelong look. “Yeah. Luke and I always talked about working as white-water guides in the summer, and all the best rivers are out West. So I've been calling some of the outfitters we found on the Internet, asking if he maybe signed up with them.”

Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Big Sky, Montana. Deadwood, South Dakota. It was easy to imagine Luke living somewhere in those wide-open spaces, steering a raft through white-water rapids, making a campfire in the crisp evening air, hiking up a snow-peaked mountain. The images were so real that it took a second for me to remember that Luke would never do those things. He would never make it out West.

“That could take forever.”

He shrugged. “Not searching for Luke would take the same amount of time.” I heard a faint echo of Luke's matter-of-fact logic. Jack stood beside me and pointed to a river. “That's the Shoshone. Supposed to have the best white water in the country.”

Standing this close to him, I could feel the warmth of his body. It was the exact opposite of standing next to Luke, but I still shivered and moved away.

He kept his eyes on the map and said softly, “I don't get why he didn't tell me he was going.”

There was nothing I could say to that except a lie (I'm sure he meant to call) or the truth (actually, he didn't call because he's dead, and oh, by the way, here's how I happen to know that). Neither option was possible.

“So, that detective?” I prompted.

Jack threw himself back into his chair. “Yeah. Detective Calhoun,” He mimicked the detective's voice. “‘I just stopped by to see how you were doing.' I just stopped by to pump you for more information is more like it.”

“He's still working on the case? It's been, what, a year since Luke left, right?”

“In two weeks.” He smiled at me sardonically. “The anniversary is going to be pretty low-key. No balloons or confetti or anything.”

I shifted my gaze over his shoulder to several snapshots pinned up in a row on the edge of the map. I got up to look more closely and took in a quick breath. Luke was smiling out at me. His hair was a little too long, just like it was now, and he was wearing an old army jacket.

I glanced down at Jack. He looked down at his jacket, then back at me. “I don't know why he left this,” he said. “He used to wear it all the time. Drove my dad crazy.”

“It's really cool,” I said, trying to make my tone as colorless as possible. I didn't want even a hint of what I was thinking to show up in my voice.

Because what I was thinking was this: Jack knew that if Luke had run away, he would have taken his jacket. He knew that Luke would have told Jack where he was going. He knew that Luke would have made plans for them to get together. He knew that Luke would have called or written or been in touch somehow.

Which meant that Jack had to suspect that Luke was dead.

Chapter 20

“So
, you saw Jack today.”

Luke had taken his usual spot in the window seat. I was sitting in the rocker, trying to concentrate on
Pride and Prejudice
. Mr. Darcy had finally shown up, and the book was indeed getting much better. I could hear distant yelling and banging and sudden crashes from another part of the house, which meant that Grandma Bee had finally convinced Lark and Linnet to help her practice jujitsu throws in the parlor.

I turned to look accusingly at his profile. “Were you watching us?”

He shook his head. “I heard him ask you to come over. I don't hang out around my family much anymore.”

“Too sad?”

He shrugged. “Too frustrating. I try to get through to them, but nothing works. They don't hear me when I talk. If they feel a sudden cold spot in the room, they just close a window. That day in the museum?”

I sat up in surprise. “What?”

“I managed to make my face appear in the spirit painting,” he said, rather proudly. Then his smile dimmed. “It just freaked Jack out.”

“No kidding,” I said, remembering.

Luke frowned. “I've tried showing up in their dreams, moving stuff around Jack's room—”

“Luke Skywalker! That was you!”

“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “You'd think that would be easy enough to figure out. I mean, come on.
Luke
Skywalker?”

“
Excellent
clue.”

“Thank you.” He nodded in acknowledgment. “Except, you know, for the fact that
no one got it
. In fact nothing I've tried has worked. Which brings me to today's argument—”

I groaned and dramatically collapsed on the floor.

“—for why you should help me.”

I looked at my watch. “Ten minutes,” I said. “Go.” But he didn't launch into his case immediately. Instead he leaned his head back and stared at the deepening blue sky. “One thing you should know about Jack. He's very stubborn.”

“Really.” My tone was as dry as the desert, and he grinned.

“We used to wrestle all the time. I'd usually pin him in two minutes, tops, but that kid would never tap out.” He shook his head, remembering. “I mean, I'm two years older, about fifty pounds heavier and”—he shot me a quick grin—“an incredibly gifted athlete.”

“Not to mention modest.”

He nodded modestly and went on. “He'd be on the floor, arm twisted behind his back, about to pass out, all scraped and bloody from friction burns—”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “This was in fun?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said, as if this were self-evident. “But no matter what I did, he would never give up.” He turned to look directly into my eyes. “Ever.”

I looked away first. “And your point is?” “If he thinks that I'm still alive, roaming around the Wild West in search of adventure—”

“It's one of the stages of grief,” I said, more authoritatively than I felt. “Number three, I think. Denial. He'll get over it.”

“No, Sparrow.” Luke's voice was sad. “He won't. Jack will keep searching for me until the end of his days.”

I shifted uncomfortably, feeling some sympathy for Jack. Luke had me pinned in—I glanced at my watch—less than five minutes.

Luke settled into a gracious silence, allowing me (I thought bitterly) a generous amount of time to consider this new argument. He sat in the window seat and amused himself by blowing on the glass and watching ice crystals form into patterns as I frowned down at my book.

Finally he took pity on me and introduced a new subject. “Did you get that trail map? Maybe we can take a look at it now.”

I pulled the map out of my backpack with relief and spread it out on my desk.

“See, here are the trails I usually took.” His finger traced them for me. “That's where the park rangers searched, of course.” He pointed to another spot. “Now. See here? I had wanted to try this trail for a long time.”

It led up the other side of the mountain, far away from the other trails. “It looks steep,” I said, eyeing the topographical lines.

“It is,” he said calmly. “Very.”

“So you decided to try it at night,” I said sharply. “Alone. Without letting anyone know where you were going.”

“Stupid,” he said. “Although, in my defense, I'd like to point out that when I started the hike, it was still light outside. But once you've made one stupid decision, it gets easier to make even stupider ones. Which is why when I got to this spot”—his finger moved on relentlessly—“I decided to step to the edge of a cliff to get a better view. It was a beautiful night, and I could just about see Orion, but there was this tree blocking my view, so I . . . Anyway. The fact that the ground under my feet was loose shale didn't give me a moment's pause.”

As soon as he said that, I saw it happen. The dark trail up the mountain. The clouds scudding across the moon. The step onto loose rock, casual, just trying to get a better look at a constellation . . . and then the sickening plunge.

“But why didn't you just break your legs or end up paralyzed or something?” I sounded argumentative and angry. I felt close to tears. “Why did you have to die?”

“Because I fell off a forty-foot cliff. You can't argue with reality, Sparrow.”

And with that he was gone.

I didn't sleep well that night. The next morning I woke up late and got dressed in record time. As I dashed through the kitchen, Grandma Bee blocked my way and thrust a piece of toast in the general direction of my mouth.

“Hey!” I wiped a smear of butter from my chin.

“You're not getting out of this house without eating something!” she said. “I need you in fighting shape tonight!”

“Um, why?” I asked, knowing I would regret it.

“I'm learning to extend my ki force so I can do a no-touch throw,” she said, a manic gleam in her eye. “I'll be able to slam you to the ground through the sheer power of my mind.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said insincerely as I took the toast from her hand and started toward the door.

She blocked my way again, staring pugnaciously into my face. “We can start right now!” she cried. “Try to shove me out of your way! Go ahead, push me as hard as you can!”

“Please, I've got to get to school—”

“Go ahead, try! You'll see, I'm solid as a rock!”

“I'm already running late—”

“You won't be able to move me an inch! My mind is a mighty weapon—”

A few moments later, as the door swung shut behind me, I heard her yell, “I wasn't ready! My thoughts weren't collected! My feet weren't planted! Come back, I'll let you try again.”

Fiona caught me by the arm just as I was about to go into history class. “Hold on a sec,” she whispered. “I need to talk to you.”

“What about?” I cast a worried look through the classroom door at Sergeant Grimes, who had just picked up the attendance book from his immaculate desk and was surveying the room with his usual forbidding air. “The late bell is about to ring—”

“I know, I know, but
listen
!” Her eyes were sparkling with excitement. “I called Merri last night to ask her about our Spanish homework, you know Senorita Reilly always talks so fast when she gives the assignment that I can't understand a
word
she's saying, especially because it's always in
Spanish
—”

“I know, I know.” I was bouncing impatiently on my toes.

“—so
anyway
, Merri and I started talking about other things, you know, like that boy she likes who plays on the JV basketball team and whether Jeannie Bartlett is
really
going to New York to be a model after graduation—”

“Uh-huh.” I made a wrap-it-up motion with my hand as I glanced nervously toward the door.

“—and then we got on the subject of the Halloween dance.” She came to a complete stop and gave me a meaningful look.

I gave her a puzzled look in return.

“
The Halloween dance
,” she said again, with significant emphasis.

“Yes, you said that already,” I pointed out. We were really going to be late if Fiona insisted on saying everything
twice
—

“It's a Sadie Hawkins dance,” she said, pronouncing each word very distinctly. “Girls ask boys.”

“Oh, right.” I looked at the floor, the ceiling, the door. “Well, that's a long way away—”

“Not that long. And Merri told me—”

The late bell rang, a jarring clang that echoed through the halls like an air-raid signal.

“Oh, no, I
told
you we were going to be late!” I started to open the door.

Fiona tugged on my arm, pulling me back into the hall and completely ignoring Sergeant Grimes's thunderous expression.

“
What?
”

“Merri told me that Clare told
her
that she heard Chad talking to Sam and that
he
thinks that Jack wouldn't mind too much if you asked
him
.” She stopped to take a breath and beam triumphantly at me. “Isn't that totally
cool
?”

I hesitated, parsing that sentence in my mind. “So
him
is?”

“Jack, of course!” Fiona patted me reassuringly on the shoulder as she opened the door and swept into the classroom. “Don't worry, I'll talk you through the whole thing. This is going to be so so
so
much fun!”

I soon realized that it's very hard to get through life when you're too distracted to pay attention to what's going on around you. By the end of the day I'd been yelled at twice for not paying attention in class. I had flunked a pop quiz in biology. And during a vicious game of volleyball, my lack of focus had resulted in the ball's smashing into my face not once, not twice, but
three
times.

I was sitting alone at the bus stop, wondering if my nose was broken and thinking for the hundredth— okay, the thousandth—time about what Fiona had said, when I felt a touch of dry ice brush my left arm.

I sighed and turned my head to see a middle-aged man wearing a dark suit and narrow tie sitting inches away from me, smoking a cigar. His old-fashioned fedora was pushed jauntily onto the back of his head. His right elbow was hooked over the back of the bench, and his left ankle was propped on his right knee.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said. “I heard you're finally open for business.”

Oh, no.
Go away, leave me alone, I don't want to talk to—

Oh, what the hell.

“What business are you talking about?” I asked tersely.

“The ghost talking business, of course.” He nodded in approval. “That'll be a nice little moneymaker for you. I got a nose for these things.”

He blew a smoke ring in my direction. “I was regional sales director of the year ten years in a row, you know. Had a whole wall full of plaques.” He waved his hand in a wide arc to illustrate. “'Course then I died. After that I have to say the plaques didn't mean as much. But I still get to pass on business tips once in a while to folks down here on the earthly plane. Take you, for example—”

“Forget it. I'm not going into the ghost talking business.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Sure about that? 'Cause a girl with your kind of talent could charge a bundle.”

“I'm sure.”

“Okey-dokey.” He blew two more smoke rings. One floated delicately inside the other. He watched it for a moment with quiet pride, then winked at me.

“Don't you know smoking will kill you?” I snapped.

He laughed. “Black humor. I like that in a girl.”

I started to say something nasty back when I heard a slight cough behind me. I turned to see Detective Calhoun eyeing me.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “er, whatever it is you were doing.”

“Oh. Um. Just . . . practicing for a play.”

“By the way, it wasn't smoking that got me in the end,” the ghost said. As he faded away, he added, “Here's another tip, kiddo. Never eat sushi at a diner called Mom's.”

“Ah,” Detective Calhoun said. “A play! It's always a pleasure to meet a fellow thespian. You know, I did a little acting in high school, too. Harry the Horse in
Guys and Dolls
.” He sighed happily at the memory. “Great part. Great play. If you ever get a chance to see it—”

“What do you want?” I interrupted.

He blinked, as if he had been awakened from a particularly pleasant dream. “Right to the point, I see. Well. I don't know if you remember me? Detective Calhoun? We met outside the Dawsons' house yesterday?”

“Uh-huh.” I waited, wary.

“I thought we might have a little chat.”

I glanced at my watch. “My bus will be here any minute.”

He didn't take the hint. “You seem to have become good friends with young Jack—”

Young Jack? Where were we, in a Dickens novel? I looked at him in disbelief, but he rolled right along.

“—so I'm sure he's told you about the recent tragedy that his family suffered.”

A long pause here as he looked at me meaningfully. I made my face as blank as possible and looked unhelpfully back. If he wanted to pump me for information, he'd have to do better than that.

The silence stretched out for almost a minute, which is actually quite a long time to go without speaking. There was a sudden breeze, and a few leaves fell from the tree behind us. I squinted down the road, looking for the bus and concentrating on not speaking.

Finally he sighed heavily and said, “Yes. Well. I'm sure you'd like to help them any way you could.”

I stared at him without blinking. “If young Jack has said something to you, for example, that might shed some light on his brother's disappearance—”