“Why didn't you come home and get it when you remembered?” Nick's voice broke into Jack's reverie.
“Mr. Penworthy said I'd have to serve a detention after school if I left school to go get it. And I didn't want to miss soccer tryouts.”
Nick shook his head, his exaggerated brows drawing together in a frown. “You should have come home anyway, detention or not. It's a small thing for your mother to ask, your cooperation in taking care of yourself. What you did today could have important consequences.You cannot imagine what it is like to lose a child.”
The old man spoke as if from personal experience. Jack sighed, a frustrated explosion of air.
“You're an adolescent. You think you're immortal.” Nick collected their dishes and set them in the sink, put the teakettle on to heat. “How did tryouts go?”
Jack told Nick all about the business with Lobeck. By the time Jack finished his story, Nick was frowning again. “Garrett Lobeck went flying through the air? And you didn't touch him?”
Jack shrugged. “I don't really know what happened. He was pissed about it. I think he was just looking for an excuse for blowing the play.”
“Was he hurt?” Nick persisted.
Why this sudden interest in Lobeck? “His lip was bleeding. He'll have a fat lip tomorrow. To match his head”Jack added.
“Do you think he'll make a big deal about it? Tell people he was attacked, and so on?” Snowbeard leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the table in front of him as if he were holding it down. The old man's hands looked smooth and remarkably young for someone his age. Whatever his age was.
“Who knows? He said I fouled him. Seriously, someone should've hurt him a long time ago.”
Nick smiled thinly. “Don't misunderstand me, Jack. It is not that I object to a little butt-kicking when it's deserved.” He stood abruptly and walked to the window, nudging the metal tokens on their bed of sand with his forefinger.
“What's that?” Jack asked, eager to distract Nick, who seemed intent on interrogating him.
“Mmmm?This? It's nothing. A charm against evil. Old magic. The eccentricities of an old man.” Typical Nick Snowbeard. He could say any outrageous thing that came into his head and get away with it.
When Nick had things arranged to his satisfaction, he returned to the table. And the topic of Lobeck.
“Did anyone else see what happened? Was anyone there to watch the tryouts?”
Jack shook his head. “The goalie was the closest, and I don't think he saw it.” He tried to think of who was in the bleachers. Thought of Leesha. “There were some people in the stands.” Jack regarded Nick curiously. ”Why, do you think he'll sue me or something?"
The kettle shrilled. Nick rose, lifting it from the heat, and poured hot water into the teapot. He set out a china cup, cream and sugar.
The weather was getting worse. Sleet clattered against the glass of the windows, and the oaks behind the garage creaked in protest. A damp chill seemed to find its way through a hundred unseen passages, running cold fingers down Jack's spine.
Jack was still irritated about the medicine. Today, he hadn't taken it, and he'd felt… different. More alive. Now he felt … anesthetized. As if he were being smothered.
“I just don't see what the big deal is about the medicine. Dr. Longbranch says I have to keep taking it. She never runs any tests, so how would she know? I feel fine, and I felt good today without it. Maybe it's time I weaned myself off the stuff. I think we should find another doctor, someone from around here. I've never liked Dr. Longbranch that much anyway.”
“Have you told your mother how you feel?”
“I've tried, but she doesn't want to hear it. It's like she thinks Longbranch is some kind of… of wizard.”
Nick choked, sputtering, spraying tea across the table.
“Axe you okay?”
“Perfectly.” Nick blotted at his beard with a napkin. “I suggest you speak with your Aunt Linda before you do anything rash.”
Jack stared at him. Aunt Linda? Why did he need to get a second opinion from her? Becka often joked that Nick had been a present from Aunt Linda, since she was the one who had recommended him. All of her presents were unusual, from exotic African carvings to a chemistry set his parents had vetoed when he was three, to sailing lessons and beach weekends. Some gifts were dangerous, some extravagant and impractical, but all were interesting. Never a golf shirt or a gift card.
Nick never said much about his personal history, if he had any family, or how he knew Aunt Linda. Somehow, he seemed to be able to deflect those questions effortlessly. He was from northern Britain, had attended Cambridge, though he never finished his degree. Aunt Linda had attended private school in Britain when she was Jack's age. Perhaps they'd met there.
It didn't matter. Jack was tired of being the miracle child, the survivor, tired of swallowing down the medicine that was emblematic of his special status. “Sure, Nick, whatever. I'll ask her. She's coming tomorrow, you know,” he said.
Nick's black eyes glittered under bushy brows. “Is she? That's a good thing, I suppose,” he said.
Impatiently, Jack grabbed his social studies book and leafed through until he found the appropriate page. “Well, back to important stuff. I have a social studies test tomorrow. Can you quiz me on the explorers?” He pushed the book toward Nick, a little rudely. History was Snowbeard's specialty. Sometimes he spoke of events long in the past as if he had participated personally.
The old man sat for a moment, tapping a forefinger against his pursed lips. He sighed and rotated the book so he could read it. He found the spot with his finger. “Vasco da Gama,” he said.
Chapter Two
The Road Trip
Jack awoke, momentarily confused by the sound of voices from downstairs. He threw back the quilt, then lay back regretfully for a moment. It had been another late night.
But there was something else, some vestige of a dream that made him shiver. Something about dead people, somebody looking for him. And Nick. He frowned. It had been a long time since he'd had a nightmare. One he remembered, at least.
The weather had improved. The wind was finally quiet after shrieking most of the night. There was the promise of a fair day in the brightening sky. The backyard was gilded, every leaf and blade silvered with ice, and gleaming.
When he rounded the corner from the back stairs into the kitchen, she was there, seated at the kitchen table with his mother. His aunt Linda.
Her hair was gold and platinum this time, and short and spiky all over. Her skin seemed bronzed a bit, no doubt the result of recent travel in the tropics. She wore blue jeans and a fitted T-shirt, with sturdy leather hiking boots.
They must have been talking about him, because conversation stopped when he came into the room. There was an awkward little moment until Aunt Linda rose to embrace him. Jack towered over her, but she tilted his chin down so she could look him in the face. Her eyes were blue speckled with gold, like some exotic stone.
“You've grown so tall, Jack,” she said, releasing his chin but still studying his face. “I do believe you've passed up your father. It seems boys become men before you know it.” She looked a little sad for some reason, but he felt inordinately pleased, as if he had personally brought the change about.
“I was just telling Linda some news. I guess I forgot all about it after that scare we had last night.” Becka looked as excited as a child at Christmas. “I've been awarded a fellowship to do some research in Middle English literature at Oxford this summer.”
“Oxford? You mean England? But what about your practice?”
“Mike Mixon's agreed to pick up any court work for me this summer. Things are pretty quiet right now, anyway. It's been a long time since we've had a real vacation. I won't be working all the time, and there's so much I'd like to show you” Becka said.
“You'll love England, Jack,” Aunt Linda added. “Our family comes from there. So many old voices, and so much history under the ground,” she said, as if that comment required no further explanation.
“Well.” Jack was torn between excitement and apprehension. “Dad said maybe we could finally build that sailboat this summer.”
“I'm sure we can work something out,” Becka said lightly, pretending it might actually occur.
“Maybe we could visit you for a change,” Jack suggested to Linda.
Linda didn't meet his eyes. “I'd love for you to visit, but unfortunately I've sublet my flat in London, since I've been doing so much traveling.”
Aunt Linda's livelihood had always been rather mysterious. She was in real estate, she said, representing manor houses and castles throughout the UK. Jack assumed she must be good at it; she always seemed to have plenty of money and the leisure to spend it.
“Mom said you came to see me,” he said bluntly.
She nodded, steepling her hands. “I was hoping you could come with me on a road trip.”
“Road trip?”
“I'm going to dig up some dead relatives,” she went on, “and ask them where the family money is.”
“Dead relatives?” All he seemed to be able to do was parrot what she said.
Aunt Linda laughed. “I came back to the States to do some genealogical research,” she said. “I'm going to drive down to Coalton County and look through some old records.”
“Oh.” Jack tried not to make a face. Funny, he'd never heard Aunt Linda mention anything about genealogy before.
“That should be fun,” Becka said enthusiastically. She loved wading through dusty old records, legal and otherwise.“ I wish I could go. Jack and I went down there once, but we didn't find much. Maybe you two will be more successful.”
“Ri-i-i-ght,” Jack said skeptically.
Linda grinned. “Look,” she said. “What I really need is some muscle to dig up the bodies. Why don't you invite a couple of friends? What about Will? Isn't that his name? Or maybe Harmon Fitch.”