I could feel my cheeks redden. “No, it didn’t,” I said.
“What?”
“That’s an excuse.” I tried to keep my breathing even, but Brandon took a step back. “My father had to live with a superstar brother too, remember?”
“I do.”
Brandon looked at his feet.
“What?” I said.
“I don’t mean to be cruel, Mickey, but how did that work out for him?”
His words landed right on my chin. “Low blow, Brandon.”
“Not my intent,” Brandon said.
“And my father didn’t turn into a bully who called girls cows or threatened to beat up the new kid.”
“No,” Brandon said gently. “He didn’t.”
“I hear a but.”
“Forget it.”
“My father did good work. He helped the needy.”
“And how about his relationship with his superstar brother?”
I couldn’t believe that he was still going there. “When he and his brother had their falling-out, Myron wasn’t a superstar anymore. He’d already blown out his knee. Myron’s career was over.”
“You’re right,” Brandon said. But I could hear in his tone that he just wanted to move on. “Forget that. I’m not making excuses for Buck, but let’s be real here. Buck was under a lot of pressure to perform, to live up to the hype of being Randy’s brother. Then you add to that all the problems at home, his parents’ divorce . . .”
“And his huge weight gains,” I added.
“So I don’t get it, Mickey. What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know. I just wonder if it’s connected. Buck suddenly leaves town. Troy tests positive for steroids.”
“I don’t see how they’re related.”
“Neither do I,” I said. Then I added: “Yet.”
Chapter 27
When I stepped into Spoon’s hospital room, Ema was already there. Mr. Spindel, Spoon’s father and the school janitor, was up on a ladder, fiddling with wires behind the television.
“Almost done, Dad?” Spoon asked.
“I don’t see why you need this here.”
“I told you. Rachel has a copy of an old Smurfs show on Betamax. We all want to watch it.”
Mr. Spindel stepped down from the ladder with a frown on his face. “That has to be the lamest lie I have ever heard.”
“Or maybe,” Spoon said, “it’s something R rated and completely inappropriate.”
Mr. Spindel sighed. “Sounds better than the Smurfs.” He finished tightening the wire. “All yours,” he said. He grabbed his stepladder and left the room.
I looked at the old machine. “Where did you get this?” I asked him.
“From home,” Spoon said. “Where else?”
“You still have one?”
“Of course. While the Betamax had lost almost its entire market share to the VHS tape by 1988, Sony continued to manufacture them until 2002.”
“Ooookay,” I said.
Ema put the tape into the Betamax. She pressed the play button. I sat on the right front corner of the bed. Ema took the left. We left enough space between us for Spoon to see.
The hospital TV was mounted on the wall in front of us. Right now, the screen crackled in gray-and-white static. We waited. Ten seconds later, the picture cleared.
“Where is that?” Spoon asked.
Ema and I shared a glance. “That’s the tunnel.”
“The one under Bat Lady’s house?”
“Yes,” Ema said. “In fact, this is pretty close to where we found the tape.”
“Cool beans,” Spoon said.
The camera was pointed straight down the corridor, coming from a spot relatively close to the house and aiming at a spot more toward the garage. For ten seconds, nothing happened. Then the camera gave a little jerk and we heard a familiar voice say, “Oh, I’m so clumsy.”
From behind the camera, Lizzy Sobek appeared.
She was wearing that long white gown, her gray hair down to her waist. She looked younger—it was hard to say how much—but her skin was less wrinkled. She turned back and looked at the camera. “Is it on, Dylan?”
Spoon said, “‘Dylan’?”
“Dylan Shaykes,” I said. “That’s the name of the guy with the shaved head.”
“The one who follows you in the black car?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Why does that name ring a bell?” Spoon asked.
“From old milk cartons. He disappeared twenty-five years ago. There were a lot of stories on him recently—”
“And now he . . . ?”
“Works for the Abeona Shelter,” I said.
“Like us.”
“Shh,” Ema said.
On the screen, Lizzy Sobek turned her back to the camera, spread her arms, and said, “Welcome.”
We heard distant voices, but we couldn’t see anything.
A voice from behind the camera, Dylan Shaykes’s, said, “You’re blocking me.”
“Oh,” Lizzy Sobek said. “Sorry.”
She stepped to the side. I squinted at the screen. Four kids—or maybe it was five or six, hard to tell from the distance—appeared down the hall. They stumbled closer to the camera.
“You’re safe now,” Lizzy told them.
One of the kids stepped forward in a challenging way. He put his fists on his hips, almost Superman style. “Who are you? Why are we here?”
I heard Ema gasp. “Mickey?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
The boy looked to be about twelve years old. He moved closer to the camera—close enough that we could see that his hair was sandy blond. The picture quality wasn’t good enough to see the green eyes, but I didn’t need to know the color. The facial features were all the same. I would guess he was fifteen or twenty years younger, but there was no doubt in my mind.
It was Luther. My Butcher.
“We will explain everything to you in due time,” Lizzy said.
But Luther was having none of it. “I want to know now.”
The other children moved forward. One looked younger than Luther by maybe five years. The little boy was scared and confused. Luther threw his arm around him protectively.
“It’s okay,” Lizzy said in a gentle voice. “No one can ever hurt you again.”
Another child, the one on the far right, started to cry. Lizzy moved toward him, her arms spread. He ran into her arms. She stroked his hair. The fourth child did the same. Lizzy took him in her grasp too.
“What?”
“That’s an excuse.” I tried to keep my breathing even, but Brandon took a step back. “My father had to live with a superstar brother too, remember?”
“I do.”
Brandon looked at his feet.
“What?” I said.
“I don’t mean to be cruel, Mickey, but how did that work out for him?”
His words landed right on my chin. “Low blow, Brandon.”
“Not my intent,” Brandon said.
“And my father didn’t turn into a bully who called girls cows or threatened to beat up the new kid.”
“No,” Brandon said gently. “He didn’t.”
“I hear a but.”
“Forget it.”
“My father did good work. He helped the needy.”
“And how about his relationship with his superstar brother?”
I couldn’t believe that he was still going there. “When he and his brother had their falling-out, Myron wasn’t a superstar anymore. He’d already blown out his knee. Myron’s career was over.”
“You’re right,” Brandon said. But I could hear in his tone that he just wanted to move on. “Forget that. I’m not making excuses for Buck, but let’s be real here. Buck was under a lot of pressure to perform, to live up to the hype of being Randy’s brother. Then you add to that all the problems at home, his parents’ divorce . . .”
“And his huge weight gains,” I added.
“So I don’t get it, Mickey. What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know. I just wonder if it’s connected. Buck suddenly leaves town. Troy tests positive for steroids.”
“I don’t see how they’re related.”
“Neither do I,” I said. Then I added: “Yet.”
Chapter 27
When I stepped into Spoon’s hospital room, Ema was already there. Mr. Spindel, Spoon’s father and the school janitor, was up on a ladder, fiddling with wires behind the television.
“Almost done, Dad?” Spoon asked.
“I don’t see why you need this here.”
“I told you. Rachel has a copy of an old Smurfs show on Betamax. We all want to watch it.”
Mr. Spindel stepped down from the ladder with a frown on his face. “That has to be the lamest lie I have ever heard.”
“Or maybe,” Spoon said, “it’s something R rated and completely inappropriate.”
Mr. Spindel sighed. “Sounds better than the Smurfs.” He finished tightening the wire. “All yours,” he said. He grabbed his stepladder and left the room.
I looked at the old machine. “Where did you get this?” I asked him.
“From home,” Spoon said. “Where else?”
“You still have one?”
“Of course. While the Betamax had lost almost its entire market share to the VHS tape by 1988, Sony continued to manufacture them until 2002.”
“Ooookay,” I said.
Ema put the tape into the Betamax. She pressed the play button. I sat on the right front corner of the bed. Ema took the left. We left enough space between us for Spoon to see.
The hospital TV was mounted on the wall in front of us. Right now, the screen crackled in gray-and-white static. We waited. Ten seconds later, the picture cleared.
“Where is that?” Spoon asked.
Ema and I shared a glance. “That’s the tunnel.”
“The one under Bat Lady’s house?”
“Yes,” Ema said. “In fact, this is pretty close to where we found the tape.”
“Cool beans,” Spoon said.
The camera was pointed straight down the corridor, coming from a spot relatively close to the house and aiming at a spot more toward the garage. For ten seconds, nothing happened. Then the camera gave a little jerk and we heard a familiar voice say, “Oh, I’m so clumsy.”
From behind the camera, Lizzy Sobek appeared.
She was wearing that long white gown, her gray hair down to her waist. She looked younger—it was hard to say how much—but her skin was less wrinkled. She turned back and looked at the camera. “Is it on, Dylan?”
Spoon said, “‘Dylan’?”
“Dylan Shaykes,” I said. “That’s the name of the guy with the shaved head.”
“The one who follows you in the black car?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Why does that name ring a bell?” Spoon asked.
“From old milk cartons. He disappeared twenty-five years ago. There were a lot of stories on him recently—”
“And now he . . . ?”
“Works for the Abeona Shelter,” I said.
“Like us.”
“Shh,” Ema said.
On the screen, Lizzy Sobek turned her back to the camera, spread her arms, and said, “Welcome.”
We heard distant voices, but we couldn’t see anything.
A voice from behind the camera, Dylan Shaykes’s, said, “You’re blocking me.”
“Oh,” Lizzy Sobek said. “Sorry.”
She stepped to the side. I squinted at the screen. Four kids—or maybe it was five or six, hard to tell from the distance—appeared down the hall. They stumbled closer to the camera.
“You’re safe now,” Lizzy told them.
One of the kids stepped forward in a challenging way. He put his fists on his hips, almost Superman style. “Who are you? Why are we here?”
I heard Ema gasp. “Mickey?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
The boy looked to be about twelve years old. He moved closer to the camera—close enough that we could see that his hair was sandy blond. The picture quality wasn’t good enough to see the green eyes, but I didn’t need to know the color. The facial features were all the same. I would guess he was fifteen or twenty years younger, but there was no doubt in my mind.
It was Luther. My Butcher.
“We will explain everything to you in due time,” Lizzy said.
But Luther was having none of it. “I want to know now.”
The other children moved forward. One looked younger than Luther by maybe five years. The little boy was scared and confused. Luther threw his arm around him protectively.
“It’s okay,” Lizzy said in a gentle voice. “No one can ever hurt you again.”
Another child, the one on the far right, started to cry. Lizzy moved toward him, her arms spread. He ran into her arms. She stroked his hair. The fourth child did the same. Lizzy took him in her grasp too.
