Foul (Night Fall ™) Page 2

  I don’t have time to respond. Even carrying the bundle of clothes, he’s out the door and pulling it shut in less than a second. He dropped a sock, but I doubt he wants me to chase him down right now.

  As I head for my locker I feel bad. Nate’s right. He should have been the one interviewed. I scored another thirty points today, but he’s the one who saved the game.

  I’m imagining both of us getting interviewed together as I open my locker and something falls out onto the floor. I look to see what it is, and my body clenches.

  It’s a human finger.

  7

  Part of the finger is wrapped in a sheet of paper, but I can see the fingernail and the wrinkled skin below it. It’s a woman’s finger. The nail is long and smooth. It’s painted half blue, half gold—Northern California State colors. I feel like vomiting, but instead I force myself to bend down and pick up the finger by its paper cover. The finger slides out and bounces on the hard floor.

  I look at the paper I’m holding. It’s a handwritten note:

  Free-Throw Shooting Tip: Always hold the ball on your fingertips, not in your palm.

  Just then I hear the door open. “Hello?” I say. My voice sounds desperate, and I tell myself to calm down. But then again, a finger just fell out of my locker, so why should I?

  The door closes.

  Maybe it was just Nate. Maybe he came back for his sock and left.

  Whoever it was, I’m getting out of here. I toss my bag over my shoulder and take two long strides across the locker room. Out of the corner of my eye I see the finger. You can’t just leave a human body part lying on the ground, can you? I turn and scoop the finger up in one motion and keep moving for the door. The sock’s still there. Whoever it was who just opened and closed the door, he wasn’t coming to retrieve missing clothing.

  I scoop the sock up, too.

  When I step into the hallway, I find Cindy once again leaning against the wall.

  This time she’s looking right at me.

  8

  I quickly drop the finger into the sock and hope she didn’t see what I was holding. All of a sudden what I’m afraid of isn’t the psycho who sent me the finger. It’s grossing Cindy out.

  “Don’t you ever wear those things?” she says.

  “What?”

  “Your socks.” She nods at what I’m holding. “Last time you walked out in your sandals, too.”

  I try to think of an excuse for carrying a sock rather than wearing it. But all I can come up with is, “Guess I just forgot.” Then I add, “Anyway, this one’s all sweaty. I should probably put it in my bag with the rest of my dirty clothes.”

  I unzip the bag and put the finger-sock inside. When I look up, Cindy’s staring at me. She doesn’t know what to say. How do you respond to someone forgetting to put on socks?

  “Hey,” I say, filling the silence. “Did you see anyone leave the locker room right before I did?”

  She shakes her head. “Sorry. Just got here,” she says. “In the nick of time, it turns out. Any chance you could give me another ride?”

  Like last time, Cindy’s still wearing her cheerleading outfit. The first thing she does when she gets in the car is turn on the heat. She angles all the fans toward her legs. My eyes can’t help following the air’s lead. The fact that she’s sitting makes her skirt particularly short.

  “Eyes on the road, pal,” Cindy says.

  I lift my eyes up quickly. “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . . I’m not . . .” I’m too embarrassed to finish a sentence.

  Cindy’s mouth breaks into a smile, though, so she must not be too upset. “Just trying to prevent an accident,” she says.

  I keep my eyes glued to the road.

  “It’s weird,” Cindy says. “On the court you seem so tough. You’re always glaring at the other team. You’re Rhino. But off the court you’re way different—just Ryan, I guess. Can I call you that? Ryan?”

  I nod, which surprises me. I like the name Rhino. Plain old regular Ryan has always seemed boring—until now. Out of her mouth, I like how it sounds. It’s like she sees me in a way no one else does.

  I want to let her know I see her differently, too. “I was watching you cheer once,” I say, “and I noticed you weren’t actually cheering at all. I mean, you were going through all the motions, but your mouth was closed.”

  “Whoops,” she says. “Guess I’m busted. I didn’t know anyone had noticed.” She’s holding her wrists up and together, like she’s ready to get handcuffed for breaking the laws of cheerleading.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I say. “But why weren’t you cheering?”

  “I never really do. Even when I’m moving my lips I’m just lip-syncing. Cheering in unison seems kind of corny to me.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Because I love watching basketball.”

  Makes sense. “Why don’t you play yourself?”

  “I said I liked watching basketball, not playing it. I grew up going to Bridgewater basketball games with my parents, and as a cheerleader I always get front-row seats.”

  “Good thinking,” I say.

  Cindy puts her arm across her stomach and does a bow. “Why thank you, kind sir,” she says.

  I pull into her driveway. “We made it,” I say, “accident-free.”

  “No thanks to you,” she says, flashing her smile.

  I look at her house. Once again there are no lights on. “Do your parents work at night?” I ask.

  Cindy nods. “They work night and day. One’s a pilot, the other’s a global consultant. Don’t ask me what that means, except that I’m home alone a lot.”

  “Is that freaky?” I ask. There’s only one time I remember being left alone all night in my house, and that’s the night my parents died in the car crash. I was five at the time. I remember waiting and waiting and finally getting out of bed. I wandered from room to room that night, and the apartment felt huge without my parents in it. These days I’m usually the biggest guy in any room I enter, but the idea of being alone in a house still makes me feel small.

  “I’m used to it,” Cindy says. “But if this is your way of asking to come inside, the answer is yes.”

  “Really?”

  “You said you were a nice guy, right?”

  I nod. She’s pulling her door open, and I do the same.

  As I climb out of the car, though, I catch a glimpse of my sports bag. Oh, yeah. There’s a severed finger in there. Not to mention some crazy guy out there who did the severing.

  “I am a nice guy,” I say, “but I better go.”

  Cindy gives me another smile. “OK. See you later, Ryan.”

  9

  As I drive home, I try to figure out what to do about the finger. I should report it, of course—I know that. But to who? I think about bringing it to Sheriff Brady. That seems like a good idea until I realize I saw him talking to the Northern California State recruiter. I know it’s probably crazy, but what if the recruiter is the one who threatened me the other day? What if he put the finger in my locker? I did see him leave the court while everyone else was celebrating. And the fingernail is painted Northern California State colors. Plus, whoever put it in my locker included a coaching tip.

  OK, maybe I’m being paranoid.

  The truth is, pretty much everyone seems like a suspect right now. It was a man’s voice on the phone, so I’m going to assume whoever’s behind all this is male. Beyond that, it could be anyone.

  I take a left past County Hospital and an iced-over baseball diamond. Three blocks later I pass the town cemetery on my left, the car dealership on my right.

  It might be a random stranger, but I don’t think so. There’s something about this guy. It’s like he knows me. Knows my routines and when I’ll be alone. He even knows what college I want to attend. I can’t believe I’m considering it, but . . . what if it’s someone close to me? Dale, for instance. I’ve been ignoring his basketball advice for years—could this be his
way of making me listen? Or how about Nate? My best friend? I’ve never seen him as angry with me as he was tonight. What if those were his true feelings showing through? Worst of all, who does the finger belong to?

  I turn right by the Bridgewater Library. I’m almost home now.

  No, I tell myself. It’s not Dale. It’s definitely not Nate. They’d never do such a thing. Right? If it’s not them, I’m back to the recruiter. And it is weird that a recruiter would spend an entire game talking to the local sheriff. Is Sheriff Brady in on it, too?

  I ease into my driveway and park under the basketball hoop. Dale put it up the first day I started living with him and Patty. I look at our front porch. I helped build it last summer. I tell myself that I can trust these people. They’ve been taking care of me, after all, since I was five. They’re practically my parents. And I have to tell someone about what’s happening. A lunatic cut off someone’s body part, and for all I know he has that person locked up somewhere.

  I reach into the back seat for my sports bag and pick it up.

  Of course, they’re not my parents. Not my real ones. They’re Patty and Dale. I’ve never called them Mom or Dad, and they’ve never asked me to.

  I set the bag back down. I decide to keep the finger to myself until I’m sure I know what to do with it.

  When I get inside, Patty and Dale are sitting at the kitchen table. They’re looking right at me, as if they’ve been expecting me. “There you are,” they say. “Where have you been?”

  It’s not like them to check up on me after a game. “What’s going on?” I ask.

  They look at each other. Dale nods at Patty as if to say, “Go ahead.”

  “It’s your father,” she says to me. “He escaped from prison.”

  10

  “What are you talking about?” I say. “My parents are dead.”

  “No,” Patty says. She’s not looking at me anymore. She’s looking at the table. “Your mother is dead, that’s true—but your father . . . It’s complicated, but . . .”

  “Just let him read the article,” Dale says.

  He’s holding a newspaper out for me to take. When I see the headline, the paper starts trembling in my hands.

  Murderer on the Loose

  According to authorities, Ryan

  Danielson, convicted of killing his wife

  eleven years ago, escaped early this

  morning from Pineridge Heights, the

  maximum-security prison where—

  The paper drops from my hands and flutters to the ground. I stare at it and tell myself to pick it back up. But I can’t. I can pick up a severed finger, but not this.

  Dale says, “Look, Rhino—”

  “You said they both died!” I scream. “In a car crash!”

  Neither of them responds. Patty’s still looking at the table, scratching at something with her fingernail. Dale pulls at his turtleneck like it’s suddenly too tight.

  “Well? What’s going on?” I’m still yelling.

  “We thought it would be easier this way,” Patty says, still scratching the table.

  “What way?” I ask. “Having both parents dead?”

  “Isn’t that better than having one parent in jail for murdering the other?” Dale says.

  “That’s not your decision to make,” I say. “You don’t get to decide what to tell me and what to leave out.”

  “Then whose is it?” Dale says. “If you were us, what would you have done?”

  I don’t know. I don’t know because I can’t think clearly right now. This information is too much.

  “I’m sorry, Ryan,” Patty says. She’s still scratching away at the table. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  It’s the first time I can remember her calling me that in years. Ryan. She was the one who originally invented the nickname Rhino, and she’s been calling me that ever since. Until now. Now I’m Ryan Danielson Jr. Son of Ryan Danielson Sr., the man who murdered my mother.

  How did he do it? I wonder. How could he do it? How could he kill his own wife?

  But then again, I don’t want to know.

  I ask Dale and Patty the only question I need an answer to: “When did he escape?”

  “The article says he’s been missing since last Tuesday.”

  My heart catches in my chest. Last Tuesday was when I got that call.

  “Make your free throws or I’m going to start hurting people,” the voice had said.

  11

  I’m used to everyone watching me closely, but this is different. Before, people were only interested in my moves on the basketball court—now they want to know about my life off the court. “Is it true?” everyone wants to know. “Is your dad a murderer?”

  Reporters have their cameras and vans parked in front of my house. I feel like someone is following me at all times. I keep hearing doors slam without anyone entering the room. Floorboards creak even though, when I look, no one’s walking on them. Last night I woke up to the sound of my bedroom window smashing shut, even though it’s winter and there’s no way I had it open.

  The basketball court isn’t much of a relief, either. I’m used to everyone screaming my name, but no one’s doing that today. Everyone has gone quiet, as if they don’t know what to say.

  Not that they have much to cheer about. The man (my father?) told me he would hurt people if I didn’t make my free throws, so I’m trying to make sure I don’t have to shoot any. I do my best not to get open. That way, no one will pass me the ball. The few times the ball does end up in my hands, I quickly pass it.

  My plan works really well until the end of the game. We’re winning, and time is running out. The other team intentionally fouls me to stop the clock.

  So here I am again, at the line. As always, Patty and Dale are sitting in the middle of the crowd. Cindy’s in her crouch, though I doubt she or the other cheerleaders will jump into the air even if I make it. Sheriff Brady and the recruiter are once again standing next to each other. I watch Nate put his elbow in front of the guy next to him. Hopefully he won’t have to get the rebound this time. Hopefully my shot will go in.

  I release the ball and watch it float toward the basket. It rolls around and around the rim . . . but falls out.

  12

  If I had a choice, I wouldn’t once again be here in the locker room alone. But I don’t have a choice. I was surrounded after the game by news reporters. And even though we managed to win the game, these reporters had no interest in talking about sports. They just wanted to hear about my father.

  I don’t know anything, I kept saying. Honestly. You know as much as I do.

  The locker room is the only place I can go to get away from all the questions. I’m sitting in my usual spot, afraid to open my locker, but equally afraid of leaving. There’s probably tons more reporters waiting for me in the hallway. The only thing I can think to do is wait them out.

  I wonder how long I’ll have to be here. These reporters can’t stay forever, can they? They have to eat sometime, right?

  I unzip the side pocket of my sports bag and rummage through it for my granola bar. Instead, I grab something that’s cold and slippery and round. I lift whatever I’m holding out of the bag.

  My stomach lunges.

  It’s an eyeball.

  Red veins shoot out of a brown iris like thin lightning bolts. There’s a nerve dangling behind it.

  Attached to the nerve is another handwritten note.

  Free-Throw Shooting Tip: Never take your eye off the rim.

  13

  “What is that?”

  I whip around. Nate’s standing there, his mouth wide open.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  He jerks his head toward the bathroom. “Taking a pee,” he says. “Is that . . . man, what the . . . why do you . . .”

  Nate’s so freaked out he’s stuttering. Oddly, I find this comforting. If I ever suspected him of being involved with any of this, I see now that I shouldn’t have. His face is twitching in horro
r.

  I decide right then and there to tell him everything. The threatening phone call, the finger, now this. I start to tell him about my dad but he interrupts me: “I already know all about that.”

  “Who doesn’t?” I say. “It’s been all over the news.”

  “No,” Nate says, “that’s not what I meant. I knew about your dad before he escaped.”

  I ask him what he’s talking about.

  “First put that thing away, man. It’s creeping me out.”

  I’d actually managed to forget I was holding the eyeball. I put it in the same sock that’s holding the severed finger and zip up my bag.

  “Is that my sock?” Nate says.

  I start to explain how I got it, but he brushes what I’m saying aside with his hand.

  “I don’t want to know,” he says. “Just promise me you won’t try to give it back, okay?”

  I promise. “But how did you know about my dad before the article?”

  Nate takes a deep breath.

  “A couple weeks ago,” he says, “my dad brought home a file—which isn’t like him. He usually leaves his work in the office. From then on he spent every night sitting in the living room and reading that file. Whenever I asked him what it was, he just said it was research. I was able to get a few glances at it, though. It was a bunch of news clippings and court reports, and it all had to do with some murder a long time ago.”

  “My mom’s,” I say.

  Nate nods. “Yeah. Except I didn’t realize it at the time. The murderer had a different last name from you and lived in another part of the country.”

  “I was born in California. When Dale and Patty adopted me, they gave me their last name.”

  “I get that now,” Nate says. He taps his pointer finger against his teeth, suddenly deep in thought. “What I don’t get, though, is why my dad would be researching your dad before he escaped . . .”