Shelter (Book One): A Mickey Bolitar Novel

MY COMBINATION LOCK NEVER OPENS on the first try. I don’t know why.

I had just done the numbers: 14, back to 7, over to 28 . . . Nope, it didn’t open. I was about to try again when I heard a now-familiar voice say, “I collect bobble-heads.”

I turned to see Spoon.

“Good to know,” I said.

Spoon gestured for me to move out of the way. He pulled out a huge key ring, found the one he was looking for, and stuck it in the back of my lock. The lock opened, presto.

“What’s your combination?” he asked me.

I said, “Umm, should I tell you?”

“Hello?” Spoon jangled his keys in my face. “You think I need your combination to break in?”

“Good point.” I told him the numbers. He fiddled with the lock and handed it back to me. “It should work with no problems now.”

He started to leave.

“Wait, Spoon?”

He turned toward me. “What did you call me?”

“Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Spoon,” he said, looking up and smiling as though trying the word out for the first time. “I like it. Spoon. Yeah. Call me Spoon, okay?”

“Sure”—he looked at me so expectantly—“uh, Spoon.” He beamed. I wasn’t sure how to ask this, but I figured what the heck. “You have a lot of keys there.”

“Don’t call me Keys, okay? I prefer Spoon.”

“Yeah, of course. Spoon it is. You said before that your dad is the janitor here, right?”

“Right. By the way, the White Witch in the Narnia series? I think she’s sexy as all get out.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said, trying to get him back on track.

“Can your dad really get you into locked places in the school?”

Spoon smiled. “Sure, but I don’t really need to ask my dad. I got the keys here.” He dangled them in case I didn’t know what keys he meant. “But we can’t go in the girls’ locker room. I asked him about that—”

“Right, no, not the girls’ locker room. But you can get into other places?”

Spoon pushed the glasses back up his nose. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” I said, “I was wondering if we could get into the main office and check a student’s file.”

“What student?” he asked.

“Her name is Ashley Kent.”

School ends at three P.M., but Spoon told me that the coast wouldn’t be clear until seven. That gave me four hours to kill. It was too early to visit Mom—I was only allowed night visits because Mom was supposedly working on her rehabilitation during the day—so I headed back to Bat Lady’s house.

As I walked out of the school, I noticed a voice mail. My guess was it was from an adult. Kids text. Adults leave voice mails, which are a pain because you have to call in and go through the prompts and then listen to the messages and then delete them.

Yep, I was right. The message was from my uncle Myron. “I booked our flight to Los Angeles for first thing Saturday morning,” he said in his most somber voice. “We’ll fly in, then back the next day.”

Los Angeles. We were flying out to see my father’s grave. Myron had never seen the final resting place of his brother. My grandparents, who would meet us out there, had never seen the resting place of their youngest son.

Uncle Myron went on: “I got a ticket for your mother, of course. She can’t be left on her own. I know you two want a private reunion tomorrow, but maybe I should be around, you know, just in case.”

I frowned. No way.

“Anyway, hope you’re fine. I’m around tonight if you want to grab a pizza or something.”

I didn’t feel like calling, so I sent a quick text: Won’t be home for dinner. I think it will be less stressful on Mom if you’re not around.

Myron wouldn’t like it, but too bad. He wasn’t my legal guardian. That was part of the deal we struck. When he found out that my father was dead and that my mom was having problems, he threatened to sue for custody. I countered that if he did that, I’d run away—I still have enough connections overseas—or I would sue for emancipation.

My mom may have some issues, but she’s still my mom.

It wasn’t a pretty fight, but in the end, we came up with, if not an agreement, a cease-fire. I agreed to live in his house in Kasselton, New Jersey. It was the same house both Myron and my dad grew up in. Yes, that was weird. I use the basement bedroom, which had been Myron’s room, and do all I can to avoid the upstairs room where my father spent his childhood. Still it’s a little creepy.

Anyway, in return for agreeing to live in the house, Myron agreed to let my mother remain my sole guardian and, well, to leave me alone. That was the part he had trouble handling.

When I looked now at Bat Lady’s house, I shivered. The wind had picked up, bending the bare trees in her yard. I had seen every kind of superstition in all four corners of the globe. Most seemed downright silly, though my parents always told me to keep an open mind. I didn’t believe in haunted houses. I didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits or things that go bump in the night.

But if I did, man, this place had them all.

The place was so dilapidated it actually seemed to lean, like if you pushed too hard it might just crumble to the ground. There were loose boards. Some windows were gone, replaced with wooden planks. The ones that remained were fogged up as if the house just took a hot shower, which, judging by the dirt, wasn’t really possible.

If I hadn’t seen her with my own eyes, I would swear the house had been abandoned for years.

I approached again and knocked on the door. No answer. I put my ear close to the panel—not too close because I didn’t want to get a splinter—and listened. Nothing. Not a sound. I knocked some more. Still no answer.

So now what?

What could I really do here? Something. Anything. I decided to try the back door. I circled to the left because, like I said, the house tilted and if it suddenly collapsed, I didn’t want it to fall on me. I looked up. There was a widow’s peak way up high and for a moment I imagined the Bat Lady sitting up there in a rocking chair, still dressed in white, looking down at me.

I hurried my steps, wondering what I’d find in her backyard.

Nothing.

The house came right up against the woods. It was the strangest thing. It was as though the house was built half onto a plot of land, half in a forest, like it was emerging from the trees. From the street, it just looked as if maybe there were a ton of trees in her backyard. But it was all trees. The roots seemed to merge right into the foundation. Thick, ugly vines ran up the back walls. I don’t know if the house was originally built in the woods and then a clearing was made in the front, or if it was the opposite, if the woods behind it had sneaked up and started to swallow Bat Lady’s house whole.

“What are you doing?”

I bit back a scream and jumped high enough to dunk a basketball. The voice had come from behind me. I spun quickly, taking two steps back and banging into a tree.

It was Ema.

“Scared you, huh?” She laughed and lifted her arms into wings. “Did you think I was the Bat Lady coming to take you away?”

My voice was a whisper. “Knock it off.”

“Big tough guy.”

“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“Wait, were you following me?”

“Really, Mickey?” She put her hands on her hips. “Conceited much?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that.

“It was just . . .” Ema sighed. “You mentioned Bat Lady. And you came to my rescue, right, and then I guess I just got curious.”

“So you followed me here?”

Ema didn’t reply. She looked around as though she’d just realized that we were half in the woods, half leaning against the back of Bat Lady’s house. “So why are you here anyway? No luck with the fat chick, so you figured you’d try the old one?”

I just looked at her.

“I heard what they said. Buck and Troy. They’ve been on me for so long it’s hard to remember a time when they weren’t.” She turned away, bit her lower lip, and then faced me again. “I also heard they threatened you for defending me.”

I shrugged it off.

“So what are you doing here?”

I wondered how to explain it and went with the simple: “I want to talk to Bat Lady.”

Ema smiled. “No, seriously.”

“I am serious.”

“No, you’re not. Because, well, she’s not real. Bat Lady’s just a myth the big kids use to scare the little kids. I mean, I don’t know anyone who has ever seen her.”

“I’ve seen her,” I said.

“When?”

“This morning.” Then I added: “She told me that my father was still alive.”

Ema looked puzzled.

“He died in a car crash earlier this year,” I explained.

“Whoa,” Ema said, her eyes going wide. “I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“I just want to talk to her.”

“Okay, I get it. I saw you knock on her door. So what’s your plan now?”

“Try the back door.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Ema said. She looked toward the woods and narrowed her eyes. “Look at that.”

She pointed into the woods and took a few steps in that direction. I didn’t see anything other than trees.

“There’s a road back there,” Ema said. “Maybe a building.” I still didn’t see it. She walked toward it. I followed her. A few steps later, I could see that she was right. There, maybe fifty yards behind Bat Lady’s house, was what might have been a garage, painted in a brown-green that worked as camouflage. There was a dirt road from somewhere in the woods leading up to it. You couldn’t see either one from the front of the house. Heck, you couldn’t even see them from the back door.

Ema bent down and touched the dirt. “Tire tracks for a car,” she said, like she was following someone in an old movie. “This must be how Bat Lady goes in and out—through this dirt road. She can park and go in and no one would ever see her.”

“Bat Lady drives?”

“What, you think she flies?”

I felt a chill. The garage was in better shape than the house but not by much. I tried the garage door. It too was locked. There were no windows, so I couldn’t see if there was a car inside.

I didn’t know what to make of all this. Probably nothing. An eccentric old woman lived here. She liked to go in and out through a private entrance. Big deal. There was no reason for me to be here.

Except, of course, she had known my name. And there was that bit about my father being alive . . .

Who says that to someone? Your father’s still alive? Who does that?

Enough. I spun around and headed to the back door. I knocked. No reply. I knocked harder. There were dirty windows on the door. I cupped my hands around my eyes to look inside, and while I did, I felt the door give way just a little. I looked down at the knob. Decay had eaten away at the doorjamb. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. Ema was by my side now. I extracted a credit card, hiding the name on it from her.

“Whoa,” she said. “You know how to break in?”

“No, but I’ve seen it on TV. You just sort of slide the card.”

She frowned. “And you think that’ll work?”

“Normally no,” I said. “But look how old that lock is. It looks like it’ll break if I breathe on it too hard.”

“Okay, but think it through first.”

“Huh?”

“Suppose the door does open,” Ema said. “Then what?”

I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. I jammed the credit card into the opening in the jamb. I slid it down. It met resistance. I slid a little harder. Nothing. I was about to give up when the door slowly opened with a creak noisy enough to echo into the woods.

“Whoa,” Ema said again.

I pushed the door the rest of the way open. The creak grew louder, causing birds to scatter. Ema put her hand on my forearm. I looked down and saw her fingernails were black. She had silver rings on every finger. One was a skull and crossbones.

“That’s breaking and entering,” she said.

“You going to call the cops?” I asked.

“You kidding?” Her eyes lit up. She looked younger now, sweeter, almost like a little kid. When I saw the hint of a smile, I arched an eyebrow and that, I guessed, scared it away. The sullen was back. “Whatever,” she said, trying to sound like she couldn’t care less. “It’s cool.”

No, not cool. I knew that this wasn’t the smartest move, but the need to do something here, anything, outweighed those personal concerns. Besides, really, what was the risk? An old woman had yelled out some crazy things to me in the morning. I came by to check on her. When there was no answer, I decided to make sure that she was okay. That would be my story. What were they going to do, lock me up for that?

“You might as well go home,” I said to her.

“Dream on.”

“I guess I could use a lookout.”

“I’d rather go in.”

I shook my head.

Ema sighed. “Fine. I’ll be the lookout.” She took out her cell phone. “What’s your number?”

I gave it to her.

“I’ll stand over there. If I see her flap her wings, I’ll text you. By the way, what are you going to do if she is inside, waiting in the dark to pounce on you?”

I didn’t bother replying, though in truth I hadn’t thought of that. What if Bat Lady was waiting for me and . . . and what? What was she going to do, jump on my back? I’m a six-footfour-inch teenager. She’s a tiny old woman. Get a grip.

I stepped into the kitchen. I didn’t close the door behind me. I wanted a quick escape in case . . . well, whatever.

The kitchen was from another era. I remember once watching a rerun of a black-and-white TV show called The Honeymooners with my dad. I didn’t really think it was very funny. A lot of the humor seemed to come from Ralph threatening to physically abuse his wife, Alice. Ralph and Alice had a refrigerator—if that’s what this was—like this one. Bat Lady’s linoleum floor was the dirty yellow of a smoker’s teeth. A cuckoo clock was stopped on the wrong time, the bird out of his little brown house. The cuckoo looked cold.

“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone home?”

Not a sound.

I should just leave. Really. What was I looking for?

Your father isn’t dead. He is very much alive.

On the one hand, I knew better. I had been in that car with my father. I saw him die. On the other hand . . . you just don’t say a thing like that and not expect a son to demand an explanation.

I tiptoed across the peeling tiles. I passed a checkerboard tablecloth like something you’d see at a pizza joint. There were salt and pepper shakers stuck to it, the contents hardened. I stepped out of the kitchen and stopped in front of a spiral staircase leading up to the second floor.

Where, no doubt, Bat Lady’s bedroom was.

“Hello?”

No reply.

I put one foot on the first step. Then those images—the ones of Bat Lady maybe getting dressed or showering—filled my head. I put my foot back down on the first floor. Uh-uh. I wasn’t going up. At least, not right now.

I entered the living room. It was dark. The key color: brown. Very little illumination made it through the dirt and wood covering the windows. There was a tall grandfather clock, also not working. I spotted an old-fashioned cabinet stereo. A hi-fi, I think they called it. It had a turntable on top. Vinyl albums were stacked to the side. I spotted Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys, the Beatles walking across Abbey Road, and My Generation by the Who.

I tried picturing Bat Lady blasting classic rock in this dark room. The image was simply too weird.

I stopped and listened again. Nothing. Across the room I spotted a giant fireplace. The mantel was bare except for one photograph. I began to move toward it when something made me pull up.

There was a record on the turntable.

I took another look. I knew this particular record well. This record—the one Bat Lady had most recently played—was called Aspect of Juno by a group called HorsePower. My parents listened to it a lot. Years ago, when Mom and Dad first met, my mother was friends with Gabriel Wire and Lex Ryder, the two guys who made up HorsePower. Sometimes, when Dad was traveling, I would find Mom listening to the music alone and crying.

I swallowed. A coincidence?

Of course it was. HorsePower was still a popular group. Lots of people owned their music. So it happened to be sitting on Bat Lady’s turntable—big deal, right?

Except it was a big deal. I just didn’t see how yet.

Keep moving, I thought.

I started again toward the photograph on the mantel. The fireplace itself was filled with soot and burnt, yellowed newspaper. I lifted the picture gently from the mantel, afraid that it might fall apart with a mere touch of my hands. It didn’t. The glass on the frame was so thick with dust that I tried to blow it clean. Dumb move. The dust flew into my eyes and up my nose. I sneezed. My eyes watered. When they stopped, I blinked my eyes open and looked down at the photograph in my hand.

Hippies.

There were five of them in the picture: three women, two men, and they were standing girl-boy-girl-boy-girl. All of them had long hair and bell-bottom jeans and love beads. The women all had flowers in their hair. The men had scruffy facial hair. The picture was old—I would guess that it’d been taken in the 1960s—and the five were probably college students or around that age. The image reminded me of stuff I’d seen in a Woodstock documentary.

The colors in the photograph had faded over the years, but you could tell that at one time they’d been bright. The five stood in front of a brick building and all smiled widely. They all wore the same tie-dyed T-shirts with a bizarre emblem on the chest. At first I thought it was some sort of peace sign. But no, that wasn’t it. I looked closer, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. The emblem looked like, I don’t know, a messed-up butterfly maybe. I read once about Rorschach blots, where different people see different things in the same vague images. It was a little like that, except the blots were black while this design had a host of colors. I looked again. Yes, I could clearly make out a butterfly. Near the bottom tips of the wings, there were two round . . . eyes, I guess. Animal eyes maybe. They seemed to glow.

Seriously creepy.

My gaze kept being drawn back to the girl in the center of the picture. She stood a little forward, as though she were the leader. She had waist-length blond hair lassoed with a purple headband. Her T-shirt was, uh, snug, if you know what I mean, tight across a rather curvy figure. Just as I was thinking that this particular hippie chick was kind of hot, a horrible realization hit me:

It was Bat Lady.

Ugh!

When my phone vibrated, I jumped again. I quickly pulled it into view and looked at the message. It was from Ema. The text was all in screaming caps: CAR COMING! GET OUT!

I put the photograph on the mantel and headed back toward the kitchen. I kept low, nearly commando-crawling on the dirty linoleum. When I reached the wall, I rose slowly and peeked out the window into the backyard. In the woods, the cloud of dirt settled.

I could see the car now.

It was pure black with tinted windows. A limousine or town car or something. It had stopped in front of Bat Lady’s garage. I waited, not sure what to do. Then the passenger door opened.

For a moment, nothing happened. I glanced left, then right, looking for Ema. There she was, trying to hide behind a tree. Ema pointed to my right. Huh? I gave her a what-gives ? shrug. She kept pointing, more insistent now. I looked in that direction.

The kitchen door was still open! I’d forgotten to close it.

I ducked low and stretched my leg toward it. Using my foot, I kicked the door closed, though it didn’t stick. It popped back open, creaking in the still air. I tried again, but the lock was broken. The door wouldn’t stay closed. I nudged it closed so that it was just ajar now.

I risked a glance back at the window. Ema glared at me and started working her cell phone. The message buzzed in: what part of CAR COMING! GET OUT! confused u?!? HURRY, DOPE!

I didn’t move. Not yet. First of all, I wasn’t sure which direction to go. I couldn’t go out the back—whoever was in the black car would spot me. I could run out the front, but that might draw their attention too. So for now, I stayed put. I kept my eye on the car. And I waited.

The front passenger door of the car opened a little more. I stayed low, keeping only my forehead and eyes above the window line. I saw one shoe hit the dirt, then another. Black shoes. Men’s. A moment later someone rose from the car. Yep, a man. His head was shaved clean. He wore a dark suit and aviator sunglasses and looked as if he were either coming from a funeral or an elite member of the Secret Service.

Who the heck was this?

The man kept his body ramrod straight while his head spun like a robot’s, scanning the area. He stopped on the tree where Ema was doing a pretty poor job of hiding. He took a step toward her. Ema squeezed her eyes shut, as though wishing herself away. The man with the shaved head took another step.

No doubt about it. He had seen her.

I debated what to do here—but not for very long. I had to act fast, had to distract him. I decided to hit the back door and draw his attention. I was about to do just that when Ema opened her eyes. She spun out from behind the tree, all in her black goth wear. The man stopped in his tracks.

“Yo,” Ema said. “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?”

The man with the aviator sunglasses stared for a moment. Then he said, “You’re trespassing.”

His voice was flat, lifeless.

“Right, sorry about that,” she said. “See, I was going around the neighborhood, and I was about to knock on your front door when I heard your car, so I figured, what the heck, I’d make it easier on you and come around back.”

She tried to smile at him. He didn’t seem pleased. Ema kept talking.

“Now, our most popular cookie is still the Thin Mint, but we recently introduced a new flavor, the Dulce de Leche, though I think they’re too sweet, and if you’re watching your calories—I know, it doesn’t look like I do, am I right?—you can try our new Sugar-Free Chocolate Chip.”

The man just stared at her.

“Or we still sell the Samoas, the Peanut Butter Sandwiches, the Shortbreads and the Tagalongs. I don’t want to pressure sell, but all your neighbors have placed orders. The Asseltas next door? They bought thirty boxes, and with a little help I can land first place in my troop and win a hundred-dollar gift certificate to the American Girl doll store—”

“Go.”

“I’m sorry. Did you say—”

“Go.” There was no give in his voice. “Now.”

“Right, okay.” Ema raised her hands in mock surrender and quickly moved out of sight. I fell back for a second, relieved. I was also impressed as all get-out. Talk about quick thinking. Ema was safe. Now it was my turn. I took another glance out the window. The man with the shaved head stood by the garage door. He opened it, and whoever was driving pulled the car in. The man with the shaved head kept doing the head pivot, like a surveillance camera, and then suddenly he jerked to the left and zeroed right in on me.

I dropped back down to the floor, out of sight.

Had he spotted me? It seemed likely, the way he homed in on me like that, but with the sunglasses on, it was impossible to know. I crawled back to the other room, positioning myself on the floor so I could see the back door.

I had my cell phone in my hand. I quickly texted Ema: U OK?

Two seconds later Ema replied: yes. GET OUT!

She was right. Keeping low, I started across the kitchen floor. I passed the spiral staircase again. I thought about what might be up there and shuddered.

Who was that creepy dude with the shaved head and dark suit?

Maybe the explanation was simple, I thought. Maybe it was a relative of Bat Lady’s. All dressed in black like that—maybe it was her nephew or something. Maybe he was Bat Nephew.

I was almost at the front door now. So far, no one had come in. Perfect. I stood up and took one more glance at the sixties photograph, at the weird butterfly emblem on all their T-shirts. I looked at the other faces, tried to take a mental picture so I could review it later. My hand found the knob.

And that was when a light came on behind me.

I froze.

The light was dim, but in this darkness . . . I slowly spun my head.

There was light coming from the crack beneath the basement door. Someone was in the basement—someone who had just this moment turned on the light down there.

A dozen thoughts hit me all at once. The biggest was a one-word command: RUN! I had watched the horror movies, the ones where the mentally malnourished airhead goes into the house alone, sneaking around like, well, like me, and then ends up with an ax between the eyes. From the safety of my seat in the cineplex, I had scoffed at their idiocy and now, here I was, in Bat Lady’s lair, and someone else was here, in the basement.

Why had I come?

It was simple really. Bat Lady had called me by my name. She had said that my father was alive. And while I knew that it couldn’t possibly be true, I was willing to risk whatever, including my personal safety, if there was a chance, just the slightest chance, that there was an inkling of truth in what she said.

I missed my dad so much.

The basement door glowed. I knew the glow was my imagination or an optical illusion based on the fact that the light coming from the basement was bright while the rest of the house was so dark. That didn’t help calm me down.

I stayed still and listened. Now I could hear someone moving down there. I moved closer to the door. There were voices. Two people. Both male.

My phone buzzed again. Ema: GET! OUT!

Part of me wanted to stay. Part of me wanted to fling open that basement door and take my chances. But another part of me—maybe the part of me that was millions of years old, the animal part, the primordial part that still relied on survival instinct—pulled up. The primordial animal looked at that glowing door and sensed danger behind it.

Serious danger.

I moved back to the front of the house. I turned the knob, opened the door, and ran.