Found

CHAPTER 9

I decided to walk home because I needed to see something.

I cut across Northfield Avenue and tried to clear my head. I made a right on the next corner. I had a destination in mind, even if, in a sense, it no longer existed.

Bat Lady’s house.

I know that I shouldn’t refer to her as that anymore. The Bat Lady was the name the town kids had given to the creepy, crazy old lady who lives in the creepy, crazy old house, the one that children whispered about and made up stories about and even genuinely feared.

The Bat Lady was not crazy. Or maybe she was, but either way, she was not what any of those kids ever imagined. In a way, the reality behind Bat Lady was even scarier.

The decrepit house that had stood for more than a century was barely more than ashes now. It had been burned down last week. I had been in the house at the time. I had barely escaped with my life. I still didn’t know why that man had tried to burn me alive. I had only met him once before.

He was the paramedic who told me that my dad was dead.

I stopped in front of the remains of the house. There was yellow tape surrounding it. I wondered whether that meant that this was a crime scene, if the authorities had figured out that this had been a case of arson, not merely fire.

I flashed back to the day it all started, just a few weeks ago. I had been walking to my new high school, minding my own business, strolling right past this very spot when the front door of the scary old house creaked open.

The Bat Lady had called out to me. “Mickey?”

I had never seen her before. I had no idea how she knew my name.

She pointed a bony finger at me and said the words that changed my life: “Your father isn’t dead. He’s very much alive.”

And then she vanished back inside.

I had thought that his casket would hold the answer. Instead it just led to more questions.

I stared at the remains of the house. Signs reading CONDEMNED and PRIVATE PROPERTY-NO TRESPASSING were everywhere.

So now what?

There were secret tunnels under the house. I wondered whether the fire had affected them. I doubted it. I tried to remember the last time-well, the only time-I had been in them. I knew that the entrance was by the garage, deep in the woods. I knew that they led to the house. I knew that there were other paths underground, a whole maze of them maybe.

Tunnels that had been closed off to me.

Was that all gone now? Or would there be clues down there?

I thought about working my way into the garage and searching for the tunnels, but, no, I couldn’t do that right now. For one thing, there were the various KEEP OUT-type signs. But more than that, there were neighbors out and about. A man mowed his lawn. A woman walked her dog. Two girls were drawing on a driveway with chalk. I debated circling around back, trying to find another way into those woods behind Bat Lady’s property, when I heard a sweet sound that always got my attention.

The tunnels would have to wait until the street was quiet.

Besides, someone was dribbling a basketball.

The sound called out to me. It worked like a mating call or something. I was drawn to it. The sound was soothing, engaging, comforting, inviting. If someone is dribbling a basketball and you want to join him, you are always welcome. It is part of the code. You could shoot around with someone or rebound for them or take winners. You didn’t have to know each other. You didn’t have to be the same age or the same sex or play at the same level. All that vanished when someone was dribbling a basketball.

As I drew closer, I could tell from the sound that it was someone practicing alone. Two dribbles. Shot. Two dribbles. Shot. By the speed of it, I’d say that the person was practicing low post moves. The sounds were too close together for outside shots. If you play the game, you’ll know what I mean.

When I turned the corner, I saw my team co-captain Brandon Foley taking hook shots in the key. I stopped and watched for a few seconds. He took three from the left, then three from the right, then back to the left. He made nearly every one. His face was coated in sweat. He was concentrating, focused, completely lost in the simple bliss of this drill, but there was something more here, something deeper and not so joyful.

“Hey,” I called out.

Brandon stopped and turned toward me. Now I could see that it wasn’t sweat coating his face.

It was tears.

“What are you doing here?” he asked me.

“I was just walking by when I heard the dribbling,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said after practice. I appreciate you reaching out like that.”

He turned toward the basket and started up his drill again. “Forget it.”

I let him shoot for another minute. There was no letup, no slowing down.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

Brandon dribbled outside and took a shot. The ball swished through the basket and started to roll away. Neither one of us went for it.

“It’s all falling apart,” Brandon said.

“What is?”

“All these years, all the different teams we played on together, all leading up to this season and now…” Brandon shrugged. “It’s all gone.”

I said nothing. I figured that this had something to do with what I had witnessed with Troy in the locker room, but I didn’t want to let on that I’d seen.

“Everything was going so well,” Brandon said. “We had all worked so hard and prepared and then, today, your very first day on the team and…”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to. His glare said it all.

“Wait, are you blaming me?”

Brandon turned back toward the basket and started shooting again.

“So what happened?” I asked him.

“Troy and Buck,” he said.

My two sworn enemies.

“What about them?”

“They’re both off the team.”

“What?”

Brandon nodded. “That’s right. Troy was our leading scorer. Buck was our best defender. Both gone.”

“Why?” I asked.

“What do you care?” He took another hook shot. “Heck, you’re probably happy. It clears two spots for you.”

I moved toward the basket. I grabbed the ball and held on to it. “I wanted to earn a spot,” I said. “I don’t want to get it because other guys drop out.”

Brandon looked off for a second. He let loose a deep breath and wiped his face with his forearm. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softening. “I’m snapping at you, but I know this isn’t your fault.”

“So what happened?”

“Buck moved.”

“What? Now?”

Brandon nodded. “See, his parents got divorced when we were all in eighth grade. He’s lived with his father and brother, but now his parents decided he should be with his mom.”

“Just like that?” I asked. “During his senior year of high school?”

“I guess. I don’t know. I never heard a hint of it until today.”

Part of me was pleased, of course. I hated Buck, and Buck hated me. But this somehow didn’t feel right. “So that’s why Buck wasn’t at practice,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“And Troy?”

Brandon put up his right hand, inviting me to throw him the pass. I did. He grabbed the ball in his outstretched hand, took one dribble, and dunked it hard through the hoop.

“He’s been suspended for the season,” Brandon said.

“For what?”

“Steroids.”

My mouth dropped open in surprise. “He failed a drug test?”

“Yes.”

“Wow,” I said, but now I understood what I had witnessed in the locker room. Coach Grady must have just given him the news.

“Troy swears he’s never taken anything like that,” Brandon said. “He says he’s being set up.”

I remembered hearing him claim that in the locker room. “How could that be?”

“I don’t know.”

“And who would do that?” I asked. “I mean, the testing all seems pretty much on the up-and-up.”

“I know,” Brandon said.

Brandon threw me the ball. I took a shot. “Do you believe Troy?” I asked him.

Brandon grabbed the rebound, threw me the ball. I took another shot, waiting for his answer. He seemed to be chewing over the question.

“Troy is a lot of things,” he said. “I know he can be, well, rough around the edges. I even know that he can be a bully. But a liar? A drug cheat?”

We both stopped and looked at each other.

“Yeah,” Brandon said, “I know it’s crazy, but I believe Troy.”