And then we fell down, down, down, and all I could hear was the demonic laughter of Chief Francis “Lucifer” Quinn.
Okay. So maybe some of that didn’t happen.
“Fletcher!” shouted the chief, bring me back to reality, where I definitely did not want to be. “Are you listening to me?”
I struggled on to my elbows.
“Yes. Oh my God, is May all right?”
Quinn frowned. “Of course. I suppose she’ll miss the costume, but her daddy can easily buy her a new one.”
Costume. I sighed in relief. Just a costume.
“Good. That’s great news. Did you get the arsonist?”
Quinn swiveled a chair, straddling it.
“Oh, I think we did. We got him, all right.”
“Well, who was it?”
There were two officers flanking the door, and they threw each other incredulous looks. Eventually the chief spoke.
“I’m looking at him.”
It was a simple enough statement, but somehow it wouldn’t take root in my head.
“What?”
“The arsonist. I’m looking at him. We all are, except you.”
So, everybody in the room was looking at the arsonist, except me. Therefore the arsonist was in the room. And the arsonist was . . .
“Ah, hold on now a second.”
Quinn rested his chin on his arms.
“Watch this, guys. The denial of the century, coming up.”
I backpedaled along the bed. “I’m the arsonist? Me?”
“Oh! A confession. That was easy.”
Quinn lit a fat cigar, sucking like he was trying to siphon gasoline.
“I am innocent.”
“That may be true,” admitted Quinn. “But I have to play the percentages. A known nosey parker is found at the scene of an arson attack actually holding the smoking torch. Obviously in your twisted mind, May Devereux is responsible for the attack on your person yesterday, so this is your revenge. You are a lucky boy that no one was hurt.”
My life. Where had it gone?
I allowed myself six more words. “I want to see my lawyer.”
Of course I didn’t actually have a lawyer. I’m only twelve, for heaven’s sake. But I thought Quinn might back off a few steps if he knew legal representation was on the way. Of course he shouldn’t have been talking to me at all without my parents present.
Five minutes later my parents were present, and they did not look happy. What they did look was distraught and furious at the same time. Mom assured me that everything would be all right, fondly tugging my little toe, which was the only part of me not aching after my “arrest.” Dad paced the room, threatening everything in it, including me and the furniture.
“Forget what I said earlier,” he said. “From now on investigating is completely banned. Your license is revoked. You are a twelve-year-old boy, Fletcher. When are you going to start acting normally?”
That hurt more than my broken nose. I knew I was a bit different, but never thought of myself as abnormal.
“This is normal,” I whispered. “For me. I can’t make myself good at sports.”
Dad stopped pacing. “That’s not what I mean. I don’t want you to be me. You can be yourself, but couldn’t you do that without the cloak and dagger?”
Mom tugged my toe. “Come on now, Fletcher. Promise us you’ll forget all about this silly investigation.”
I opened my mouth and nothing came out but air. How could I make a promise that I couldn’t keep? I had to know what was going on here. Curiosity had me in a vise. With every breath I thought about the case.
I was saved by the arrival of the family lawyer, Terry Malone. He handled all the family paperwork, then I checked it for mistakes. If Terry were Santa Claus’s lawyer, then Christmas would be doing several life sentences for breaking and entering.
“Well, okay then,” said Terry, once he had switched on his recorder. “Let’s go over this story again.”
I sighed. “Last night I was assaulted outside the house. I had a theory that Red Sharkey could be responsible so I ran across to May’s house to photograph the evidence.”
“Which was?”
“A bruise spelling out his name. Backward.”
Terry fished a disposable camera from his tweed jacket pocket.
“Could we see this bruise?”
Mom’s knees almost give out. “You most certainly could not,” she shrieked. “It’s under the cast.”
“Oh,” said Terry, disappointed. “So what made you decide to torch May’s dance costume? Do you have a history of pyromania?”
“I did not torch anything,” I spluttered indignantly.
“Of course you didn’t, honey,” said Mom, slapping the lawyer’s shoulder. “Why would you say that, Terry?”
“You know what the police are like,” said Terry innocently. “Arguing over every little point. Anyway, I was hoping Fletcher would tell me the truth this time.”
“I am telling you the truth!” I protested, a touch too shrilly.
“Well then, why were you roaring and screaming outside the neighbor’s window?”
“I was at the wrong house.”
“Do you really expect anyone to believe that you went to the wrong house, when you visited the correct house only the day before yesterday?”
“It was dark. They both had fountains.” Weak. Pathetic.
“Okay,” sighed Terry. “Let’s move on. How do you explain the fact that you were found beside the fire holding a torch?”
That very same question had been gnawing at me.
“He must have put me there.”
“Who?”
“The real arsonist. Keep up, Mr. Malone.” I was starting to sound guilty, even to myself.
“Okay, okay. So, the arsonist dragged you to the fire, then what?”
“Then he put the torch in my hand and left me for the police.”
Terry consulted his notes. “That’s what you told me on the phone. At least you can keep your story straight. You wouldn’t believe how many of my clients can’t tell the same story twice.”
“It’s not a story, it’s the truth.”
Terry smiled wistfully. “If I had a penny . . .”
The throbbing in my head moved up a few cycles.
“Their case is flimsy,” I said. “There’s no real evidence.”
Terry winced. “Apart from motive, means, opportunity, fingerprints, and DNA.”
I cracked momentarily. “What do you want, Terry? Tell me and I’ll give it a go. Do you want me to pull a rabbit out of my splint as a witness? Or maybe I could rewind time and we could have a look at the action replay? How about that?”
I’m ashamed to say that I followed this outburst with a bout of hysterical laughter. Not just little chuckles either—these were big lusty howls. When I had recovered sufficiently to peep between my fingers, Terry was regarding me with new respect.
“Insanity,” he said. “I like it.”
JAILBREAK
AFTER A FEW DAYS OF suspicious looks from the nurses, Dr. Brendan took off my splint and cast.
“No concussion,” he declared. “And the X-rays for skull fractures came back negative. Did you ever see those movies where the bad guys kick the devil out of the good guy?”
“I did,” said Sergeant Murt Hourihan, who had come to pick me up that evening.
“Well,” said the doctor. “That’s what happened to Fletcher.”
Murt had to sit down he was laughing so hard. It didn’t strike me as funny. Then again, I’d heard it before.
They sat me in a wheelchair and rolled me down the hospital corridor. I felt like Hannibal Lecter on tour. Nurses and interns lined the walls whispering things like Don’t let him near the matches. I was happy to be leaving, even if it was for an interview in the police station.
My parents had agreed to a formal interview provided they could be present along with Terry Malone. After this interview, Chief Quinn would decide whether or not th
ere was enough evidence to send a file to the Director of Public Prosecutions. I was hopeful that this entire mess could be cleared up in a couple of hours.
Murt’s squad car was parked across the ambulance bay by the main entrance. I transferred myself from the wheelchair to the backseat. Murt took off at speed, honking impatiently at a line of elderly patients on the crosswalk.
We pulled onto Rhododendron Road, passing May’s house on the right. She had not come to see me in the hospital. Why would she? May probably thought I was the lunatic who burned her dance costume. And even if she didn’t believe that, her dad had surely crossed me off the list of welcome visitors.
“George Montgomery is filing a complaint, you know,” said Murt over his shoulder.
“Who?”
“Colonel George Montgomery. The Devereux’s neighbor. He’s filing a complaint. He phoned Quinn at home right after you showed up outside his house.”
I groaned. “I thought I was in . . .”
“Yeah yeah, May Devereux’s garden.” Murt blew out noisily through his nose. “What’s going on, Fletcher? Are you going through some kind of rebellious phase?”
I sat up. “No. Of course not. This is all a mistake. Red Sharkey assaulted me. He probably started the fire, too.”
“Red Sharkey. Right. We questioned him. He was at home the entire night. His family backed him up. As a matter of fact, his father requested protection in case you go after his son next. But about the assault, we found his hurl in the next garden to yours. With any luck we’ll match the blood and fingerprints, so we should get him for that at the very least, but you’re definitely in the frame for starting fires.”
My nose was throbbing. “This is ridiculous, Sergeant. You know me. You can’t believe any of this.”
Murt shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. As far as Quinn is concerned the case is solved. Your file is already gone to the Director of Public Prosecutions.”
“That’s not fair,” I blustered. “He was supposed to wait until after the interview.”
“Well, the chief didn’t want to miss the last mail pick-up. Don’t worry, Fletcher, we’re not beaten yet. I won’t give up my best civilian consultant so easily.”
Murt cocked his head suddenly, sniffing the air.
“Do you smell that?”
Moments later I did. Wisps of black smoke were floating through the air vents. Murt sniffed the fumes.
“Oil line I’d say. There’s a leak somewhere and it’s coating the engine.”
“Is that dangerous?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” said Murt conversationally. “The whole engine could go.”
He pulled over to the footpath, double-parking on a white line. “All out.”
Murt opened the security door and set me sitting on the path twenty feet away from the vehicle. The smoke was billowing from under the bonnet now, engulfing the entire car.
Murt winked at me. “I presume I can trust you not to run away, Fletcher.”
I half laughed. I barely had the energy to stand up, never mind run away.
The smoke was thicker now, almost solid. It didn’t seem to bother Murt. He strode into the middle of the cloud, rolling up his sleeves. No doubt he sucked down worse every day from the cigars in the interview room.
It never occurred to me that I was being busted out of custody. Things like that just didn’t happen in Lock. Nobody had been rescued in our town since Father Gannet Roche had broken young Bill the Butcher Turner out of reform school to play in the county hurling final.
It finally dawned on me what was happening when a mountain bike skidded to a halt by my feet. I looked up to see a rider who was wearing a striped ski mask.
“Get on the back, Half Moon,” he said. The voice was all too familiar.
“Sharkey!” I gasped.
“Could be,” said the figure.
I picked up some gravel from the gutter and threw it at him. The stones jingled harmlessly through the spokes.
Red rolled up the ski mask. “Honestly, you try to help some people.”
“Help!” I spluttered, too indignant to be scared. Almost. “You attacked me. You set fire to May’s garden. This is a dry month. That could have spread.”
Red swung off the bike, kicked the stand and hunkered down before me.
“Look, Half Moon, I heard about the letters on your arm, but my hurl was stolen, okay? Someone wanted me to be blamed. The same thing is happening to you. I know you’re too wimpy to set fire to a garden.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s not a compliment.”
“I didn’t really mean it.”
The sound of Murt swearing at the engine drifted up the road wrapped up in plumes of smoke.
“We have to go,” insisted Red.
I wasn’t convinced. “How can I believe anything you say? All I ever get from you are insults or threats. Your entire family has a history of theft, fraud, and assault.”
Red glanced toward Murt. “Forget all that, Half Moon. If you get back in that car, it’s all over. Your big investigation is finished. Whoever is messing with us will get clean away with it.”
“Us?” I asked.
Red rolled his eyes. “I’m rescuing a parrot, heaven help me. Yes, us. You, me, April, May. Us.”
Curiosity sliced through the weakness and uncertainty. True, this person had threatened to harm me, but if I went to the police station, then I would be blamed for the fire and the real culprit would get away unpunished. And if Red had started the fire, why would he want to rescue me when I was all set to take the blame? This question needed an answer.
“Why, Red? Why would you want to help me?”
Red dropped his eyes. “I felt bad about shoving that hurl at your throat the other day. I blew my fuse.”
This was all very noble, but there must be more.
“And?”
“And if this assault charge sticks, I could end up in juvie this time. I can’t let that happen.” I saw anguish in Red’s eyes for the second time. “This is not the way I want my life to go, and it’s going that way anyway. I thought if I just stayed out of trouble, then I could be my own man. But Sharkeys are like trouble magnets. You’re the one who got me involved in all this, so you can get both of us out. You’re the detective.”
My instincts told me that Red was telling the truth, but there was something between us that I couldn’t let go.
“If I’m going to be a detective, I’ll need my badge.”
Red studied an ant on the pavement for a moment, then dug the badge from his pocket, tossing it on the road between my feet.
“Sorry,” he said, still looking at the ground. “I lost my head. I shouldn’t have taken it, I mean, you were right. Herod did steal that organizer, even if he won’t admit it.”
I picked up my badge and polished the face on my shirt. Just having it in my hand made me feel smarter.
Down the road, Murt Hourihan discovered that someone had put an oily rag on his engine. He balled the rag in his fist, flinging it to the ground. His first thought was that this was mindless mischief. His second was that there was a purpose behind it.
The policeman pulled his head out of the smoke, squinting toward his charge. “Hey!” he spluttered. “Hey, what’s going on there?”
Red rolled down his ski mask. “Coming or going?”
Murt was running now, legs pumping under him. “Last chance, Half Moon. Was all that detective talk just talk, or are you the real thing?”
“Don’t you move, Fletcher!” shouted Murt, his voice rough with smoke. “Stay right where you are.”
Red kicked up the stand. “I bet your file has already gone in. I bet the PTA is already having an emergency meeting at the school, making sure you won’t be a bad influence. That’s what they do, you know.”
This was all happening too quickly. I liked to think things over. Make my deductions at a leisurely pace. Was any of this really happening? I flexed my fingers and the pain ran all the way up to my
nose. It was happening, all right.
Red stared out from the eyeholes in his mask. “I didn’t do it, Half Moon,” he said. “I took the badge, and I’m sorry about that. But I never attacked you, or set a fire in May’s garden.”
Red held out his hand.
“There’s a mystery here, Half Moon. I know you can solve it.”
Mystery. The magic word. I took Red’s hand and he swung me onto the seat of the bicycle, like a cavalry officer rescuing his fallen comrade.
I held on tightly as Red put his weight on the pedals, building enough speed to outpace Murt Hourihan. Pain pinged my nose with every bump in the road.
“You pair of good-for-nothings!” wheezed Murt. “Get back here or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Hell to pay. The phrase stayed in my mind long after the sound of Murt’s wheezing had faded in the distance. I had just escaped from police custody. There would be hell to pay. And I was the one holding the bill.
AT HOME WITH THE SHARKEYS
RED TOOK THE LONG WAY home, dragging me across several fields and a stream before he finally doubled back to his own house. By the time we reached Chez Sharkey the sun was painting the undersides of the clouds a deep orange, and anyone under the age of ten was being tucked in for the night.
Chez Sharkey was the most famous house in the southeast. It had once belonged to the American filmmaker Walter Stafford, but he had lost it in a poker game to Red’s grandfather. Over the years, the surrounding estate had been built up by developers, but the old house remained untouched. It stood proud yet ramshackle, a mock Tudor mansion in the middle of a dozen almost identical housing estates.
“This place must be worth a fortune,” I whispered as Red freewheeled down the back path.
Red shrugged, which is dangerous on a bike. “Maybe. Papa would never sell. Mom loved this house.”
Red’s mother had died several years previously. I still remember the day he got the news in lunch hall. Red had kept right on eating his sandwiches. Then, when he’d finished the last one, he crumpled the tinfoil and threw it in the garbage. We didn’t see him for three months after that. As far as I know, nobody had ever asked Red how he was feeling. He wasn’t really a touchy-feely group-hug kind of person.