to keep us going. A lot of people have worked hard to make sure you see more good than bad. This thing with Ace…?” He paused and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s out of everyone’s hands.”
“I miss him,” I told Max. It was a relief just to say it out loud. “I want him to come home.”
“We all want that, Ridley. And it’s okay to be sad about it. What I’m saying is, don’t let it crush you. Don’t fuck up your life because Ace fucked up his. Don’t skip school and run out on your parents. Don’t hide in the dark. You’re a bright light. Don’t let the Aces of the world snuff you out.”
I nodded. It was good to talk about it with someone who wasn’t in as much pain as I was.
“Your parents are wrecked right now. Take it easy on them.”
My father was waiting for me at Max’s apartment when we got back. As we crawled home to New Jersey in thick rush-hour traffic, my father and I talked about everything I was feeling. But he asked me not to talk about those things with my mother.
“When she’s ready, we’ll all sit down together. She’s just too raw right now.”
We never mentioned Ace’s name in our house again.
I called Ace a couple of times from the cab. No answer. No voice mail. I quashed the fear that he might blow me off, that I might have to go to the Cloisters alone.
As we sped down the Hudson, I had to ask myself: Why were the men in my life so damaged? What was it about my karma that drew this kind of energy into my life? I thought of Max and wondered if it was really possible that he might be alive, if it was him I would find waiting for me at the Cloisters. Or maybe it would be Jake. I thought of the two of them out there circling my life like two dark moons. It felt to me as if they were on some kind of collision course, and if I didn’t get to one or the other of them first, they’d both be destroyed in the impact-or I would. Add Dylan Grace to the mix and who knew how bad it could get.
JUST OFF TIMES SQUARE there’s a virtual-reality arcade and Internet cafe called Strange Planet. It’s three stories of all the latest video games, packed all day and late into the night with geeks and weirdos. Dark and crowded, with multiple exits, it was the perfect place for a clandestine meeting with a computer nerd. The windows were blacked out, so when I slipped inside, I felt as if I had entered some bizarre future world. Surfer dudes, skater chicks, punks, and hackers all shuffled about from game to game, drinking smoothies and trying to look cool. A crowd had gathered around an overweight kid jerking in front of a kung fu game. Techno music throbbed from big speakers but no one seemed to notice. An Asian chick dancing furiously on some odd disco game seemed to be moving to her own rhythm.
In a weird way, it reminded me of some of the drug dens I’d visited in desperate searches for my brother. They were dark, inhabited by zombies concerned only with the the next high. Where they were, the present moment, was lost to them; their eyes were glazed over, staring at things I could neither see nor understand. There, like here, I’d felt anonymous and invisible. Just the way I like it these days.
I jogged up a flight of stairs at the back of the building and entered the Internet cafe. I found a free kiosk toward the back, ordered myself a cappuccino, and checked my e-mail while I waited for Grant. I figured I’d know him when I saw him.
There was the usual crap in my in-box. I scrolled through the junk until I came across an e-mail from my father. The subject line gloated, Having a wonderful time! It was just a brief note from him, saying that they were in Spain and just loving the “spectacular architecture” and “glorious food and wine.” I put my head in my hand against a wave of anger so intense that I thought I might puke up my cappuccino. I hit the delete button. As usual, my parents were off in their own little world while mine crumbled around me. I was starting to understand why Ace disliked them so much. Then I saw the e-mail from Ace, subject line blank. The message read, I can’t make it tonight, Ridley. I suggest you rethink this. Sorry.
I wrote my reply: Coward. I hit send. Lately I’d deluded myself into thinking I would be able to count on my family in a pinch. But I was remembering what I’d learned last year. You’re on your own.
I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and tried Jake again. His voice mail picked up before I even heard a ring. “Oh my God,” I said softly into the phone. “Where are you?”
The cafe was crowded with all kinds of people-students with backpacks, businesspeople with soft laptop cases, even an elderly woman with a walker parked by her chair-their faces lit by the glow of the screens in front of them. But I’d never felt so alone. I looked at the time on my phone; Grant was already five minutes late. I had six hours until my appointment at the Cloisters-an appointment I would be keeping, as I’d feared, alone. I reached into the inside pocket of my coat and pulled out my wallet, which contained a clutter of receipts and business cards and very little cash. I sifted through the mess until I found what I was looking for: a business card given to me by the only FBI agent who treated me decently during my father’s investigation. Her name was Claire Sorro; she was older than me by about ten years. Professional and courteous, she had been kind to me when other people were cold and officious. I dialed her number and leaned into the cover of the faux wood walls around me.
“Sorro,” she answered.
“Agent Sorro, this is Ridley Jones.”
“Ridley,” she said. Her voice sounded cautious and I wondered if people already knew I’d gotten away from Agent Grace.
“I have to talk to someone about Special Agent Dylan Grace.”
“Okay…” she said, her voice trailing off.
“He shouldn’t be working on the case involving Myra Lyall. He has a history with Max Smiley-he believes that Max killed his mother. And he’s using me to find out if Max might still be alive.”
“Ridley,” she started. But I interrupted her. If I’d been listening to myself, I would have realized that I wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. I was assuming a lot of knowledge on her part.
“I know I shouldn’t have run away from him, but I’d be willing to come into the FBI-if he was taken off the case. Sometime tomorrow. I didn’t have anything to do with Sarah Duvall’s murder.” I took a breath.
“Ridley,” she said quickly in the pause, “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Agent Dylan Grace,” I repeated.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
My heart started to thump.
“What I do know, Ridley, is that your face is all over the news. They’re saying that you’re a person of interest in the murder of Sarah Duvall and that an accomplice helped you to escape from NYPD custody.”
“No, not an accomplice,” I said, my mouth going dry. “Agent Grace took me. I’m a federal witness.”
“Not anymore you’re not. The Project Rescue case is long closed.”
“I’ve been under surveillance for a year. Someone over there is still looking for Max Smiley. They thought he’d come for me, because he loved me.”
In the silence that followed, I realized that I sounded like a crazy person. A sad, desperate crazy person searching for a dead man who loved her once.
“Ridley,” Agent Sorro said carefully, her voice soothing, “Max Smiley is dead. You know that.”
I tried to think back on all the things Dylan Grace had told me and suddenly it all seemed nebulous. How much had I filled in with my own imagination? How much had he really said? I told her how he’d showed me his ID on the street that day and took me in for questioning, about the photographs, how he was trailing me, how he’d had access to my phone records, how he’d taken me from the police precinct. I must have sounded hysterical, possibly delusional. I wondered if she was tracing this call, if she could triangulate the signal and figure out where I was.
Another heavy silence followed. “What did you say this man’s name was again?”
“Dylan Grace,” I said, feeling more and more foolish by the second. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve never heard of him?”
“I’m telling you I’ve never heard of him,” she said. “And I’m looking on the database now.” I could hear her fingers tapping on a keyboard. “There’s no one listed in our files by that name. No one named Dylan Grace works for the FBI anywhere in the U.S.”
I let the full impact of the information register. For a moment, I wondered if I’d imagined him altogether, if all of this was just a figment of my imagination. Maybe I should check myself into a hospital somewhere, get some meds.
“Listen, Ridley, it sounds to me like you’re in more trouble out there than if you turned yourself in. The NYPD just wants to talk,” she said with a slight singsong quality to her voice that told me she thought I’d gone over the
