Cold Fury

“She called herself your aunt.”

“She’s not,” I said, too forcefully, which shut Max up. We were both quiet until I cleared my throat and said, “So where did you meet him?”

“At your house.”

“You went to my house?”

“Uh. . yeah. Your uncle was working on the front door. I held it in place for him while he attached a hinge. Cool old place, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“He and your aunt. . or whoever she is, mentioned that they were staying with you. Your parents and brother are out of town or something, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said dully. “Or something.”

“Your uncle’s a pretty chatty guy. He had a ton of questions about school: what time we go in the morning, what classes we’re in, what kind of security. .”

“I’ll bet.”

“He told me I could stop by your house anytime.”

“What? No, don’t do that!”

“Huh?”

“I mean, unless I’m there. Uncle Buddy can really trap you.”

“Listen,” Max said, “I hope I didn’t, like, overstep a boundary, as my mom’s therapist would say. It’s just, you weren’t at the movie and you haven’t been in school. I was worried.”

“You were?” I said. “About me?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, me and Doug were worried. It’s weird when a friend isn’t where she’s supposed to be, right?”

“Right,” I said quietly, that word friend from Max’s lips feeling like a punch in the heart. “Weird.”

“By the way, Doug has this movie, Goodfellas, scheduled for. .”

Max’s words faded into the background as my brain kicked into emotional-calculator mode. My home was now off-limits with Uncle Buddy lying in wait plus the fact that I’d brought a curse on Willy and couldn’t return to Windy City Gym equaled Fep Prep-the last place where I could be the Sara Jane I was before this nightmare began. No one there knew about my life outside its walls, which provided a comforting suspension of reality. It was like being in bubble-as long as the bubble came with electronic surveillance every five feet and a squad of security guards that wouldn’t let a cop inside without frisking him. Plus, it’s housed in an old redbrick former shoe factory, with a chiming clock tower that used to call laborers to work (and now warns kids to be in homeroom by eight fifteen), composed of twisting hallways, stairways to nowhere, and out-of-the-way classrooms; only kids who are super-accomplished gamers can easily navigate the place. It’s my second year and I still get turned around in that labyrinth.

I looked at myself in the mirror as Max continued to talk.

The high cheekbones and olive skin were aspects of my mom’s face that existed in my own.

It occurred to me then that just as important as the strict security of my school was my mom’s expectation that I would continue to attend, even in her bitter absence. Like I said before, her philosophy as a teacher-as a person-is that knowledge is power. But more than that, she believes that knowledge is the air we breathe, the food we eat, the rhythm of our hearts. Knowledge is life, and she would expect me to go on living. Just by attending school I would be closer to her, and feel the strength of her confidence flow like lava through my veins. So I vowed not to let her down, then heard a question mark at the end of Max’s sentence.

“I’m sorry. . what did you say?” I said.

“Tomorrow? You know, Wednesday? Will you be back in school?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I will.”

And then we said good-bye and hung up, and I looked at the phone in my hand. With one call, Max had reminded me how easy it was to track a phone with invasive apps and beeping satellites and meticulous provider records. Now I was sure I was being listened to and spied on. Just across the street, Lake Michigan winked and sparkled like a blue quilt covered in diamonds. I needed fresh air and my phone needed a permanent, watery resting place. Sometime during my twelve hours of unconsciousness, the old sweats and crusty clothing had been magically replaced with jeans and new underthings, a good pair of shoes and a plain white, super-soft T-shirt, all in my size. Al the doorman, I thought, remembering the skeptical look he’d given me before asking if there was anything else I needed. I dressed quickly, lifted the briefcase, and left the room. He was at his post outside the hotel entrance.

I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hi, Al.”

He looked at me and the slick little mustache under his nose lifted in a smile. “Hi, Al. What can I do for you?”

“I need a phone,” I said quietly.

“Flip-top, candy bar, PDA, or iPhone?”

“Actually,” I said, looking around, “something untraceable.”

He nodded. “Disposable. How many?”

“I don’t know. Three?”

“Let’s go three dozen, just to be safe. Nice day, huh? Going for a walk?”

“Just to the lake.”

“They’ll be in your car trunk when you get back. And listen, don’t dillydally. The hotel’s throwing a Cinco de Mayo party for guests. Mariachi, mango salsa, and margaritas. You can enjoy the first two, but no booze. Underage drinking is strictly prohibited. After all,” he said solemnly, “at the Commodore, we respect the law.”

“Thanks, Al,” I said.

“You’re welcome, Al,” he replied with a salute, the gold epaulets of his uniform glinting in the sun.

My quick stroll to the water’s edge consisted of an extended look over my shoulder and envy. Everywhere I turned, from busy Michigan Avenue to the North Avenue Beach House boardwalk, people were going about their lives. It was at least eighty degrees, a summerlike day making an appearance in May, and everyone seemed to be enjoying the generous sun. They weren’t racked with suspicion or desperate to be rid of a phone or carrying steel briefcases full of secrets, guns, and money. The world seemed so ridiculous-some people floated along in peace while others fought to survive, with both groups sharing space and rubbing shoulders. And then sand crunched under my new shoes and I hurried toward the lake, swiveled my body, and extended an arm. The phone skipped across the water like a flat, rectangular stone. It was an early sixteenth birthday gift from my mom and dad, and left a trail of sparkling bubbles as it sank-another small part of them gone with it. And then I turned and looked at North Avenue Beach and realized what a mistake I’d made.

I don’t mean throwing away the phone.

I mean walking unprotected in broad daylight.

It seemed like an entire beach full of people stared in my direction.

Some were shirtless on towels, others wore bikinis and held volleyballs, and still others stood with their arms crossed, wearing sunglasses and sport coats. The sunglasses were okay, but my gut quietly informed me that guys in sport coats under a hot sun were not. They had cop written all over them, from the chunky shoes to the blank expressions focused on me and my briefcase. I had no doubt they belonged to Detective Smelt. I felt like a fool, surrounded by acres of hot sand and endless lake. My only option for cover was the old beach house, built to resemble a 1930s cruise liner, complete with smokestacks.

And there it was.

The 1930s.

If it really was that old, maybe it had a Capone Door.

I remembered how Joe Little installed them between 1921 and 1950 in private and public structures, and few things were as public as the beach house. I ran for it, and the cops ran for me. I was panicked in a save-my-butt way but calm, the chilly blue flame flickering in my gut, and was able to file away the fact for further use- when looking for a Capone Door, look for an old building. I took steps two at a time and hit the sandy concourse running hard, wondering where it could possibly be, looking past decades of renovation for