Chasing the Skip Read online

  With no homework to upload, I went directly to my e-mail. Maybe Mom had contacted me. Maybe I’d finally get to know where she was.

  I had one new e-mail. From Anna. At least that was something.

  The library computer took forever to load, and I bounced up and down in my chair a little, waiting for the words to pop onto the screen.

  Gonorrhea is on standby, Anna wrote. Investigation in progress re: his jerkiness. Love you.

  I smiled. Anna was probably following Jamie through the hallways, quizzing everyone he breathed at. She never did anything halfway.

  That was it on the e-mail—nothing from Mom, nothing from Jamie, not even any spam. I sighed. My old life dwindled away, one piece at a time. Meanwhile, where was Mom that she couldn’t even get to a computer? I couldn’t exactly be mad at her when she might be tied up in a basement somewhere.

  I rubbed my eyes. Sometimes all those news stories poisoned my brain. I had to stop reading about kidnappings until I knew where Mom was.

  Instead I pulled up my blog and logged in. Maybe I’d get an e-mail from Jamie if I gave him a reason to be jealous. I could sure find a story now.

  Dad picked up a particularly dangerous skip this morning. We’ll call him the Bull. I could tell that he was a force of nature—wild and untamed. His eyes looked right through me, like he could see into my soul.

  I rolled my eyes and deleted the last clause. This was getting dangerously close to emo. Ian must have addled my brain. Whatever. Now was the time to set objectivity aside and make Jamie’s eyes burn.

  His eyes looked right through me, but there was also a soft sexiness about him. I interviewed him twice but couldn’t get him to break.

  “Interviewed” might be a stretch, but it’s what a reporter would say, even if she was just talking to a person on the street.

  As we stopped for gas, the Bull pretended he needed to pee and then made a break for it, stealing a car right in front of us. His tires squealed as he sped out of the parking lot, smiling, and was gone.

  This was the part where I needed to describe the high-speed chase—the one Dad refused to have. Oh well.

  The hunt begins again.

  I wondered if it would work. By this point I’d be happy to receive any kind of message, even an angry one. Mom always said a jealous boyfriend was an attentive boyfriend.

  I posted the entry and logged off.

  Dad picked me up a few minutes later, pulling the trailer into the fire lane along the front of the building. I expected him to gun it out to go look for Ian, but instead he left the engine idling.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  My heart pounded. “Did you hear from Mom?”

  He looked surprised. “No, nothing like that. We just need to talk about your behavior.”

  Crap. After Ian’s escape, I’d hoped I was off the hook.

  “What behavior?”

  “I know you hate me dragging you along, but you still need to listen to my instructions.”

  I kept my eyes on the dash. If I was going to get yelled at, might as well play dumb. Sometimes that worked to get Mom off my back.

  “What instructions?”

  Dad sighed. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you, Ricki. Would you look at me?”

  When I looked up at him, he was gripping the steering wheel with one hand. His brow creased as he looked me in the eye.

  “I think I’ve been unfair to you,” he said. “I’ve treated you like a little kid, so you’ve been acting like one.”

  I wanted to protest, but I knew what he meant. I’d been trying my best to do the exact opposite of whatever he asked me, which was five-year-old behavior at best.

  “Does that mean you’re going to stop yelling at me?”

  “I want us to come to an understanding. I know you want to help me out, and I’m happy for the help, but only if I know I can trust you.”

  I bit my lip. I hadn’t given him much of a reason to trust me. I wasn’t sure I trusted him, either. “And do you? Trust me?”

  Dad’s eyes flicked up at the ceiling, which I took for a big fat no.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “This isn’t coming out right,” Dad said. “Let’s park the trailer, and we can talk about it over dinner.”

  “More tacos?” I asked.

  “There’s a diner near the freeway. We can eat some sit-down junk food for a change.”

  “All right,” I said. At least I’d be able to eat a salad that hadn’t sat in a plastic container for days.

  The diner was right off the exit. The dining area only held about twelve tables, but they had a little salad bar and a dessert counter.

  Dad ordered a burger, but I got the salad bar and a cup of soup, since those things are hard to eat in the car. After we’d ordered, Dad put his elbows on the table and looked at me.

  “So what’s this stuff you’re always writing?” he asked. “I know it isn’t homework.”

  I didn’t want him making fun of my writing, but if I wanted him to trust me, I had to give him something.

  “I’m taking notes,” I said. “For my blog.”

  Dad raised his eyebrows. “You write about my work on your blog?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said quickly. “I don’t use any names, and I change the details. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  Dad nodded. “I’m impressed you thought about that.”

  “We learned in journalism class about protecting our sources. I figure it goes double since you’re my dad.”

  “You’re taking journalism in school?”

  “I was before Mom left. That’s what I want to do when I’m older.”

  “That’s a good job, and you’re good at asking questions. We’ll have to see if there’s a homeschool course for it.”

  I’d thought the homeschool courses only came in boring subjects. “That would be cool,” I said.

  “Journalism can be dangerous, though,” Dad said. “Depending on the kind of reporting you’re doing, you can end up in some scary situations.”

  “Like your job,” I said. “I bet I could learn a lot from you, if you’d let me.”

  He actually seemed to consider the idea. “Maybe. But you’ll need more training than I can give you. Journalists need a college education, and that means you need to focus on your homework.”

  “Not all journalism is for newspapers,” I said. “I want to be a blogger.”

  “That doesn’t sound very stable.”

  “Kind of like your job.”

  Dad laughed. “Is that your answer for everything?”

  “Only because it’s true.”

  “I suppose it is. Look, since you’re riding along, there are some things about my job you need to understand. Ian isn’t your schoolmate. He’s a criminal, and probably a dangerous one. You can’t go making eyes at him like he’s your boyfriend.”

  Too bad Jamie wasn’t here to hear that. “We were just talking. That doesn’t make him my boyfriend.”

  “I know that. You’re a smart girl. You’ve got a lot going for you. I like this idea of you becoming a journalist. You’ve got the wits to be good at it, and you’re stubborn enough to succeed. You could travel all over the world doing that. But guys like Ian will just manipulate you. They’ll take you places you don’t want to be. So I want you to steer clear, you understand?”

  I was quiet for a moment. Dad was treating my journalism plans like they were a good idea, and I didn’t want to ruin that. “I get it,” I said.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “From now on, you do what I ask of you. And in return I’ll keep you in the loop about my leads, and I’ll let you keep an eye on the skips when they’re chained in the truck. I’m still not going to take you in when I’m cornering them, but once they’re cuffed and chained you can help. Maybe you can learn something about tracking leads that will be useful to you later. But you’ve got to keep your head on straight and be more careful. No more flirting with fugitives, okay?”
r />   I leaned back in my seat. I hadn’t really expected Dad to be so reasonable. It would be nice to be able to help out—I’d end up with some great stories.

  “It’s a deal,” I said.

  Dad’s burger came, and I fixed a salad at the bar filled with green peppers and mushrooms drowned in vinaigrette. When I got back to the table, Dad had slathered his French fries with honey-mustard sauce.

  “I’m worried about Mom,” I said. I had to be careful here. I didn’t want him going back on our deal, but we needed to talk about this while he was still being reasonable.

  “I’m sorry,” Dad said. “I wish she wouldn’t worry you like this.”

  “Bad things happen to people sometimes,” I said. “What if she’s hurt somewhere, and we’re not even looking for her?”

  Dad thought about that for a second, which was an improvement at least. “Look,” he said, “we don’t have any leads on where she is. She’s an adult, and she’s left like this before.”

  “Never for this long.”

  “No,” Dad said, “but all signs point to her being fine. She’ll contact you when she’s ready. Until then, you keep your mind on your homework and on helping me, okay?”

  I took a big bite of my salad and chewed. He might be reasonable now, but it didn’t change that he’d left me alone with Mom for most of my life, and he wasn’t really listening to what I needed now. I kept shoveling salad into my mouth, to keep myself from asking the unaskable question: If I’d run off instead of Mom, would he come looking for me?

  Cheyenne, Wyoming.

  Hours since Ian ran: 4.

  Distance from Salt Lake City, Utah: 445.57 miles.

  8

  As we drove to a trailer park for the night, Dad pulled some papers out of the glove box. “We have a deal, right? You’re going to listen, and I’m going to let you help.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Good. Because I traded faxes with Cal at Kinko’s while you were at the library. We have another skip to pick up.”

  “So we’re not chasing after Ian?” I’d just told Dad I’d stop flirting with skips. So why did I itch to talk with Ian again?

  “Still waiting for those credit reports to come through. Takes time, and if he’s smart, he won’t even use them. We’ll go after him when we get a break. This next one’s a breeze, though. He’s one of my regulars. Won’t take long.”

  “You have regulars?”

  Dad grinned. “Just a few. Stan gets picked up on a DUI or a drunk and disorderly every six months or so. This time it’s driving without a license, since he hasn’t gotten his card back from the last DUI. He forgets his court dates. Wanders off.”

  “So where do we look?” I asked. “His apartment?”

  “Nah. Cal already checked there, and he’s pretty sure Stan’s been gone for a while. His mail has piled up. He lands at his mom’s place in Kearney about half the time, so we can start there in the morning.”

  “Are you sure it can wait until then?”

  “Has to. If I work tired, I work sloppy.”

  “It’s only five o’clock.”

  “Add a five-hour drive to Kearney and it’ll be ten. After tracking Stan down I’ll be too tired to haul him back, and I sure don’t want to share my bed with him. If he’s at his mom’s, he’ll still be there tomorrow. Besides, that’ll give our friend Ian some time to make use of those credit cards.”

  “Isn’t it wrong for you to hope he breaks the law?”

  “I’m not hoping. Just being practical.”

  “Sounds like hope to me.”

  Dad smiled. “Well, maybe a little.”

  We camped at a motor-home park in Cheyenne. I spent most of the night listening to the wind whistle against the weather stripping on the window above my head. The cold air crept in, wrapping around my neck. I pulled the blankets tighter. They smelled of dust.

  If Mom didn’t come back, that’s what would become of the old me. Dust and memory ghosts. Being on the road with Dad was starting to feel like the new normal, but the more normal this became, the more my old life was fading away. And this life could end just as easily—easier even, since Dad didn’t have a great track record of wanting me around. I squeezed my eyes tight, trying to block out the thought. Then I thought of Ian, staring me straight in the eyes, only the chains keeping him from reaching out to me.

  * * *

  In the morning, when we headed out, I flipped open my notebook and wrote, Kearney, Nebraska. Looking for Dad’s regular. Wanted for DUI. Dad bought us some doughnuts at the gas station, and off we went.

  Once we got on the freeway, Dad picked up his cell phone and Velcroed it to the dash, hitting the voice-dial button.

  “Name?” the phone said.

  “Margaret Kentworth.”

  “Dialing.”

  The phone began to ring, and a woman’s voice came over the speaker—low and gruff. “Yeah?”

  “Margaret,” Dad said. “Robert Maxwell here. I’m looking for Stan. You seen him?”

  “Hell yes,” the voice said. “He’s sitting out back. You coming to get him?”

  “Sure am,” Dad said. “Be there in five hours or so.”

  “He’ll probably be at the bar by then, ’less he’s out of money. You know the one?”

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks, ma’am.”

  “You bet. Treat Stanley nice, now.”

  “Always do.”

  “Yes, I know. Bye, now.”

  Dad hit the off button on the phone and smiled at me. “See? Piece of cake.”

  Raindrops splattered the windshield, and I squinted at Dad.

  “You called up his mother to tell her we’re coming?”

  “Sure. That way I know we’re headed in the right direction. She’s out of town a lot, though, visiting grandkids and such. Sometimes I have to make the drive up anyway.”

  “Why would she sell out her son like that?”

  “She hates the way Stan lives his life, but she can’t bear to turn him in herself. Good woman, she is.”

  “I’m not sure any woman who turns in her own son is all that good.”

  “She does what she thinks is right. I happen to agree with her.”

  “Seems pretty warped to me.”

  Under the name of the city in my notebook I wrote, Stan Kentworth. Turned in by his own mother.

  “You working on a blog post?” Dad asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You just keep remembering to change all the identifying information, okay?”

  I closed the notebook and shoved it under my leg. “I was doing that before you asked.”

  “I know. Maybe eventually we can get you a laptop, so you could work on that no matter where you are.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Laptops were expensive. “That’d be nice,” I said. “Thanks.”

  The clock above the rearview mirror said it was nine, which meant that Jamie would be wandering out to his locker between classes. Meeting me, if I was there. Who was he meeting now? Shelby? Maren?

  I smiled, thinking of Anna spying on him. Thank goodness for her. She’d find out what was really going on.

  “Can I use the phone next time we stop?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Dad said. “You want to call your grandma?”

  “No,” I said. “Just a friend.”

  “Okay,” Dad said, “you can use the phone, but tell your friends not to call it all the time. It’s still a business number.”

  * * *

  The drive to Kearney was long, so I buckled down on my algebra homework and actually made some progress through conic sections. Even so, I couldn’t do math for more than an hour straight without feeling like my eyes were starting to bleed. Eventually I had to get Dad talking again.

  “So, has a skip ever run from you before?” I asked.

  “Skips are always running from me. It’s my job to chase them.”

  “No, I mean after you caught him, like Ian did.”

  “Ah. I’ve had so
me skips try to get away, sure. Some of them break and run, even though they have nowhere to go, just to make me wrestle them back into the truck. I think sometimes they do it to make my job harder. But none of them have ever stolen a car after I picked them up.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot Ian when he got in the car?”

  “At a gas station? What if I’d shot a bystander?”

  “Aren’t you a better shot than that?”

  “Don’t believe everything you see in the movies. It’s hard to hit a guy with a handgun while he’s driving away in a car. Besides, I could get my concealed carry taken away for that. Wasn’t worth the risk.”

  “But you do carry a gun on you?”

  “Sure,” Dad said. “You hadn’t noticed?”

  “I guess I wouldn’t know what to look for. I’ve rarely even seen a real gun.”

  Dad glanced over at me. “You’ve never shot one?”

  “When would I have done that? It’s not like Mom’s a gun fanatic.”

  “She was a pretty good shot, back in the day.”

  “Mom shot a gun?”

  “I used to take her shooting every now and again.”

  That was a strange image—Mom and Dad going shooting together. In fact, it was hard to imagine them doing just about anything together.

  “Huh,” I said. “Go figure.”

  Dad smiled. “Would you like to try it?”

  “Shooting?”

  “Sure.”

  The idea of holding a gun in my hands scared me a little. I guess I’d been scarred by all those TV shows about kids shooting each other when they’re playing around with their parents’ guns.

  “Maybe sometime.”

  “How about now?”

  I looked around at the flat expanse of middle-of-nowhere Nebraska. “Here?”

  “Sure. If you want.”

  “Aren’t you in a hurry?”

  “I haven’t heard back about Ian yet, and Stan’s not going anywhere. I think we can spare twenty minutes.”

  “But you’re always talking about keeping me out of danger. Now you want to hand me a gun?”

  Dad laughed. “I’ll teach you gun safety. I used to go hunting with my dad when I was younger than you. You can handle it.”

  The idea that Dad would rather arm his daughter than let her talk to a skip seemed a little backward to me, but I had to admit I was curious about what it would feel like to shoot his gun. I’d been asking for more responsibility, and teaching me to shoot was a good step. If I could do it well, maybe Dad would be impressed.