I called the FBI.
I asked for Agent Ryan — the same agent who had showed up at the house when Coop blew up the neighborhood. When she finally got on the phone I was surprised she remembered who I was.
“How’s Coop?” she asked. “I haven’t heard from him in a long time.”
I told her that he was missing and that Dad was going to contact the police in New York.
“Not much else he can do,” Agent Ryan said. “Coop’s eighteen now. He’s probably just out stretching his wings … seeing how they work, doing his own thing. Before I joined the FBI I was a New York cop. Finding someone there who doesn’t want to be found is nearly impossible.”
“I’m worried about him,” I said.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Agent Ryan said. “I’ll send a memo to our New York office. Do you have a recent photo?”
“I can email you one taken before he left. I don’t know if he looks the same.”
“That’ll do. I’m sure Coop looks like he’s always looked … charming. The NYPD has a better chance of running him down than we do, but you never know. One of our people might get lucky and come across him.”
“I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Like I told you, I like your brother despite his little accident. There’s something different about him. You know?”
I knew.
Dad hasn’t gotten much further with the cops. He filed a missing person’s report, but the detective told him that Coop was a low priority.
“I was on the phone with the detective for over an hour. And the only reason he spent that much time talking to me was because I dropped the Nobel laureate bomb.”
(Dad rarely drops the Nobel laureate bomb. He thinks it’s unseemly.)
“He wouldn’t tell me how many missing person’s reports were filed every day in New York, which led me to believe there were a lot of them. He told me the priorities were children and seniors. I emailed him a couple of photos of Cooper, and he said they would run them against the John Does they have in the morgue. He’ll also send Cooper’s name to all the hospitals and clinics. That’s all he could do. A needle in a haystack was how he put it. He said that most of the time the missing person isn’t really missing. They’re just hanging out with friends. Or lying low. Or they’re out of town. They resurface eventually. If Cooper is in trouble — or if he’s injured — there’s a chance they’ll find him. That’s all we can do.”
“We could hire a private detective agency.”
“I asked him about that too. He told me it was a huge rip-off. Private investigators make a fortune on long shots like this, milking the family for everything they have. I know you’re worried about Cooper. He’ll show up when he’s ready. I’ll call that detective when we get back from Belize. Who knows — Cooper might just show up here for Christmas.”
“We’ll be gone.”
“He has a key. Leave him a note. I’m sure he’ll stick around until you get back from Florida.”
I didn’t tell Dad, but …
It’s Thursday afternoon. December 23.
I’m on a train headed north.
I talked to Mom about Coop.
Her reaction was almost identical to Dad’s.
She sounded exhausted and not exactly overjoyed about me coming down for Christmas.
I guess the stay-at-home-mom-with-three-toddlers thing was not nearly as energizing as astrophysics and being an astronaut. She was interviewing for a position at Kennedy Space Center, confident she was going to get it, and said I would be hanging with my three potential half sisters and their full-time nanny during the day.
Right.
It’s cold. Frost on the window.
Dad thinks spending two weeks in the rain forest looking for a keel-billed motmot is more important than spending a day in New York City looking for his son. I can’t even pretend to know what Mom is thinking. All I know is that neither one of them are thinking about my brother.
Coop is a rare bird too.
I began planning my expedition weeks ago.
Late this morning I wrote an email to Mom from Dad.
Patrick has changed his mind about going to Florida over Christmas. He wants to go to Belize with me. I warned him about the long flight, but he swears it won’t be a problem. I hope he’s right. Anyway, we’ll take him with us. We’re heading out in a couple of minutes. Merry Christmas.
After I sent the email I disabled Dad’s email account.
I also unplugged the home phone, took the SIM card from his cell, ran hot water over it, then slipped it back into the cell. Oops. No signal.
They dropped me at the train station on their way to the airport.
I exchanged my ticket to Orlando for a ticket to New York City. Got almost two hundred dollars back to add to my stash of cash.
Yesterday I told two friends who can keep their mouths shut what I’m doing just in case something happens and I don’t make it back to school on January 3. I gave them Mom’s number in Florida, because Dad will still be in Belize, and told them where I’m staying in New York, the Chelsea Star Hotel. It’s not far from Coop’s post office and it’s down the street from Penn Station, which I’ll be pulling into in about two hours.
I’ll spend the time re-listening to Coop’s recordings. Somewhere in them he’s told me where he is.
I plug my earphones in.
Ten nights to find him.
is crowded. People are standing in line with last-minute packages that will never make it in time for Christmas.
No one pays attention to me as I talk into this recorder. That’s because most of them are talking on cell phones or Bluetooths. Some people hanging around the post office talk to themselves without any device. No one pays any attention to them either.
I’ll transcribe all this into my journal later. I can see why Coop likes this recorder, but I still prefer writing things down.
PO Box 1611. To me the numbers look like they are on fire, but of course they are just like all the other numbers on the other PO boxes. I just peeked through the keyhole. It looked like there was mail inside.
I walked directly here from Penn Station without checking into the hotel.
I thought: What if Coop picks up the mail while I’m checking in?
I realize how stupid this is now. The post office is open 6:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. Monday through Friday, and Saturday it will be closed because it’s Christmas … Coop might have already picked up yesterday’s mail, or he could stroll in here at six in the morning, which is more likely … creature of the night that he is. That’s probably why he didn’t sign for the registered letter I sent. There was no one here to give it to him. I can’t spend twenty-four hours a day for the next ten days waiting for him to show up.
I have to sleep.
I have to eat.
I have to pee …
I’m walking up to one of the homeless people. An old man with a slight limp wearing two coats, a blue neck scarf, and a stocking cap, thumbing through a magazine he just fished out of the trash.
“Hi, do you know where the nearest restroom is?”
“There’s one in here, but you can’t use it unless you work for the federal friggin’ government even though you paid for the toilet with your taxes, but you’re too young to pay taxes so you don’t know nothin’ about that, so your best bet is the sandwich shop half a block down, but they don’t like people using the can ’less they buy something … cheapest thing there is a hot dog, set you back three bucks, and it’s not even a good hot dog, but it will get you into the head. ’Course you’re a kid, and dressed okay, so you might be able to waltz right in and use the john without the hot dog.”
“Thanks. Say … uh … I’m here looking for my brother. His name’s Coop. A little older than me. Brown curly hair, green eyes, nice smile. Friendly. He has a PO box here. I’m wondering if you know him, or if you’ve seen him.”
“Don’t think so. I’m not a regular here. Popped in to get warm and wait for the soup
kitchen to open. That old bag standing over in the corner is always hanging around in here. At least, she’s been here every time I’ve loitered in. I think her name is Sadie, or Satan, or something. She’s not right in the head, but who is? She might know him. You wouldn’t happen to have any cash on you would you? Like enough for a hot dog so I can use the can and get something in my belly before the kitchen opens up. That lousy hot dog is better than the swill they serve at the kitchen.”
“Sure.” I gave him a five-dollar bill.
“Thanks. Merry friggin’ Christmas.”
“Sadie?”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing really. I’m just looking for my brother. I hear you know everyone who comes and goes here. His name’s Coop. Brown curly hair, green eyes, nice smile.”
“I know him. Good kid. Helps people. But he don’t ever come in here.”
“But he has a post office box here.”
“I said he don’t ever come in here. I’d know it if he did. Seen him on the street.”
“Which street?”
“All over the place. Bump into him every week or two.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Street kid. Lives where he can, like the rest of us.”
“If you see him, can you tell him that his brother, Pat, is looking for him?”
“Who’s Pat?”
“Me. I’m his brother.”
“I’ll tell him if I remember, but there’s no guarantee of that. My mind wanders. Can’t wrap it around things for long. You got a place to stay?”
“I’m at the Chelsea Star Hotel … well, I will be as soon as I check in. He could leave a message for me there.”
“So, you got money?”
“A little.”
“Well, don’t be telling people that. And don’t be giving money to people like you just gave that fiver to the scarf man. He’s probably an addict. You can tell by the yellow eyes and bones stickin’ out all over the place. You give him a fiver, he’ll follow you and take the rest of your money after hittin’ you in the head, lettin’ you freeze to death in the snow. Then your brother will leave you a message that you’ll never get. You act like a victim, you’ll be a victim. Remember that.”
“Coop might come in here late at night. You might have missed him.”
“Maybe, but I spend a lot of nights in here and I’ve never seen him. I’d remember that … I think. Looks easy standing here all day, but sometimes I doze off or zone out. He might have slipped in and out in between.”
“Well, thanks, Sadie.”
“By the way my name ain’t Sadie. It’s Satin, like the fabric.”
I’ve retaken my position with 1611 in view not sure what to do. Satin seems sharper than she acts. I’m watching her now. Her eyes are darting around, watching everyone and everything. I doubt those eyes miss much. They’d know if Coop came in here.
I still have to pee.
I …
Wait …
What the …
There’s a bald man, in his late fifties or early sixties, wearing an expensive-looking overcoat and suit.
He’s opening 1611.
He’s pulling the mail out.
He has a red day pack slung over his shoulder.
He’s stuffing the mail into the pack.
“Excuse me?”
“What?”
“Is 1611 your PO box?”
“What do you think? I have a key. Now go away.”
“Do you know Coop O’Toole? I’m his brother, and —”
“I said get outta here. I don’t have a handout for you.”
“I’m not asking for a handout. Where are you going? Wait. Wait. Wait!”
He pushed his way through the crowded post office and ran out the door.
I hesitated …
That’s not accurate.
I froze.
I didn’t expect a businessman to open 1611.
I didn’t expect him to accuse me of panhandling.
I didn’t expect him to run out of the post office in a panic.
Among the letters he stuffed into the red pack, at least one of them was from me. I recognized the purple envelope.
By the time I grabbed my backpack and got outside, the man was half a block away. Hurrying. I saw the top of his bald head disappear down the steps to the subway. I ran after him. At the bottom of the steps I had another delay at a vending machine to buy a MetroCard so I could get through the turnstile.
People were piling into a train as I reached the platform. I didn’t see the man. I had no idea if he had gotten on this train or managed to catch the one before it.
I squeezed on just before the doors slid closed.
It was so crowded I wouldn’t have been able to see the man if he was standing five feet away.
I still had to pee.
But I had a worse problem.
Claustrophobia.
I had trotted down the stairs and jumped on the car without even thinking about it.
My chest tightened. I broke into a cold sweat. I closed my eyes. I tried to breathe.
Claustrophobia. Fear of enclosed spaces, fear of restriction, fear of suffocation, leading to panic attacks.
This is the only scar I have from the tunnel collapse. I always sleep with a window open no matter how cold it is outside. I avoid crowded, confined spaces, like airplanes, which is why I couldn’t fly to Belize with Dad and Denise.
Trains are fine because I can get up and move around.
I guess crowded subway cars aren’t the same as trains.
You learn something new every day.
I was having a panic attack.
I didn’t care about Coop or the man. All I cared about was getting off that car.
It didn’t help that I was facing five panels that read:
EVACUATION INSTRUCTIONS
LISTEN FOR DIRECTIONS FROM
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL.
REMAIN INSIDE TRAIN IF POSSIBLE.
IF NOT …
GO TO NEXT CAR THROUGH END DOORS.
IF UNABLE …
OPEN SIDE DOOR AND GO OUT.
IF UNABLE …
GO OUT EMERGENCY WINDOWS.
Next to the evacuation instructions was another sign:
EMERGENCY EXIT
1. PULL HANDLE. 2. REMOVE RUBBER. 3. REMOVE WINDOW.
I was about to skip all three steps and kick the window out, but the car slowed and stopped at the next station.
I stumbled onto the platform gasping for breath.
I puked.
When I looked up I saw the businessman again.
He was turning a corner, heading back up to the street.
I wiped my mouth.
I wasn’t going to lose him again.
Unless he got on another subway car.
was like a red beacon.
It led me uptown to the New York Public Library.
The man went inside but was there for only ten minutes before he came back out.
I followed him two more blocks.
He disappeared into a fitness club.
There was a restaurant across the street and that meant a restroom. I hurried over to it, asked for a window table, hit the urinal, washed my hands and face, then brushed my teeth to get the sour taste out of my mouth.
I ordered a personal flatbread cheese-and-mushroom pizza and a Coke. Sixteen bucks. A skinny waiter brought me my six-fifty-a-slice pizza and three-dollar Coke. Overall, my first few hours in the city could not have gone better, discounting the panic attack and puking, but even that worked out. If I’d gone to the hotel to check in, I probably would have missed the suit with the key. If I hadn’t had the panic attack, I probably would have stayed on the subway through a couple more stops and would have missed him completely.
While I ate, I watched the entrance of the fitness club and glanced at my NYC map, which I had almost memorized. I was happy to see that I knew exactly where I was in relationship to Penn Station and the hotel, becaus
e I was going to have to follow the guy. He had the key to the PO box, and the box was the only direct link I had to Coop.
I dug another coat out of my pack and switched it with the one I’d been wearing to throw him off in case he was watching for me.
The waiter cleared my plate and glass, and I walked out into the cold and waited in an alley to keep out of the wind. I had to move from my shelter twice to make room for delivery trucks — Mack’s Meats, and about twenty minutes later, a second truck, Cloud’s Mushrooms.
The man had been in the club for over an hour.
It was dark out now. Not many people on the street. Maybe I missed him leaving. Maybe he knew I was following him and slipped out a different door. Maybe he worked at the club and wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe …
An old man came out of the club with a red day pack over his shoulder, but he wasn’t dressed anything like the old man who walked into the club. He was wearing baggy jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt that had seen better days. The hood was pulled over his bald head, but he was the right height, he moved like the old guy I was following, and there was a red day pack slung over his shoulder.
“Decide,” I told myself.
But with every step he took I thought I had made a mistake.
It couldn’t possibly be the same man.
He stopped half a block down and rummaged through a garbage can, shook out a plastic grocery bag, and dropped in what looked like a half-eaten sandwich.
A block later he ducked into an alley. I didn’t follow him because he’d see me, but I heard him rummaging again. A few minutes later he emerged with more stuff in the plastic bag.
And this is how it went, block after block.