Sting Page 9

“Almost.”

  That night March dreamed of the witch. She moved through the house like a shadow, casting shade and dread. Her gown was wet and dripping, and her long white feet left wet prints on the floor. She changed into a raven and landed on Jules’s back, pecking her until she bled. The bird raised a bloody beak and a triumphant caw.

  March woke, sweating, his heart pounding.

  Just a dream, buddy. Go back to sleep now.

  He burrowed under the blankets, missing his father’s touch on his hair.

  * * *

  Izzy looked hollow-eyed the next morning as she splashed milk on her cereal. She caught a look at March’s drawn face. “Nightmares?”

  “Just a bad dream.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “In a nightmare, you can’t wake up.”

  “Oh.” Izzy chewed thoughtfully. “I couldn’t wake up. She took my breath. Zillah. She’s around all the time now.”

  “Right.” March upended the box over his bowl. “Ask her to get more Cheerios, will you?”

  But even as he felt the satisfying crunch of normal, he couldn’t get the image of Zillah out of his head.

  * * *

  SHOPPING LIST:

  PLASTIC CONTAINER

  JAM

  FOUR SUN VISORS

  WHITE SHORTS, WHITE POLOS, WHITE SNEAKERS

  A COUPLE OF BOATS

  They waited for Mikki to go to her Zumba class and then gathered at the kitchen table. March handed Jules a burner phone, one that they would toss immediately after using it.

  “Time for a little social engineering,” he said. It was what hackers called any method in which they used people skills to get passwords or emails or to bypass normal security routines. Sometimes rather than spend hours coding or trying to break firewalls, it was just easier to get someone to tell you what you needed to know.

  Jules had mad gymnastic skills, but one thing they’d all discovered over the past year was how good she also was at impersonating an adult on the phone. If March was going to pretend to be a new employee, it would help to know the names of staff.

  Jules closed her eyes and exhaled. Then she dialed the main number of the golf club and asked for the executive director. “And can you spell his last name, please?” she asked the receptionist. “I’m writing a label and don’t want to get it wrong. P-E-T-E-R-S-O-N? Great. Can you connect me?”

  A moment later, Jules changed her voice, making it deeper but a little spacey. “Hi, it’s Brittany, over at Wholesale Distribution in Pompano? How are y’all doing today? Listen, I’ve got the Tax ID number you requested right here. Do you have a pen? Oh. Gosh. I’m sorry, I asked for personnel. I guess they transferred wrong or something … I always talk to Terry. Is it Terry? I am totally spacing out her name — right, Marie. Don’t you think Terry and Marie are similar names? Anyway, she asked for a Tax ID number, and I wanted to get it to her mondo pronto. Would you mind terribly giving me Marie’s extension so I don’t have to go through reception again? Two eleven? Great, got that. Oh, but now that I have you. Marie said that we needed to ask for the manager down at the spa to see if we need to add to the delivery? Nick! That was it! Nick C … C … oh, Nick Darwin, that’s it, I have it written down right here. I’m sorry, you sound so busy, and here I am babbling. That’s what my husband says to me all the time — he holds up his hand and says, babble! Thank you so much … was it Sue, you said? Ann Calloway, that’s right. Thanks, Ann, you’ve been so super helpful, I’ll let you go. Yes, you can transfer me to Marie, thanks, you’re a doll!”

  Jules hung up.

  “Brilliant,” March approved. “You got the CEO’s assistant’s name, the personnel director, and the spa manager.”

  “Candy security,” Izzy said, repeating the term hackers used to describe a system that had a hard outer surface, but once you cracked it, the inside was smooth and deliciously easy.

  “We just have to hope that Ann never checks with Marie in personnel and asks her about the ditzy idiot from Wholesale Distribution,” Jules said.

  “It looks like we’re good to go,” March said.

  “How’s your fly-catching system?” Darius asked.

  “Worked like a charm. Can you ask Dimmy if he can give us a ride to the beach tomorrow morning?”

  “Not Dimmy,” Darius said. “I don’t like that guy. I can drive, remember?” Darius had learned to drive over the last year, taking the train to New Jersey to learn from one of Hamish’s many nephews, who happened to be the third-best wheelman in the tristate area, according to Hamish.

  “It’s better if the driver actually has a license,” March said.

  “Anyway, you don’t like Dimmy because Mikki likes him,” Izzy said.

  “I don’t like him because … because … he’s pushy,” Darius said. “He’s always around.”

  “He’s a hard worker,” Jules said. “Mikki’s yard looks really nice.”

  “I know you all think I’m just hating on him, but that’s not it,” Darius said. “I’ve seen this before. Mikki meets a guy, builds him up, and the next thing I know, she’s an accessory.”

  “Anyway, why do we need Dimmy’s truck?” Jules asked March.

  “For the kayaks, of course,” March said.

  March and Jules sat out by the pool. It was late. Stars appeared and disappeared through the shifting clouds of tropical sky. March tried to find the Big Dipper, but he’d never really learned the constellations. One of the many things Alfie didn’t teach him.

  Which is the North Star, Pop?

  Do I look like a sailor, kid?

  He remembered the sour twist to Alfie’s mouth. He pushed away the memory. Was Jules right? Did he push away the times when Alfie had been impatient, or moody, or neglectful? Things didn’t always go well. Money disappeared. People were double-crossers or let them down. There were plenty of apartments with not enough heat. Mice. Foldout couches for sleeping that smelled like sweat and mildew.

  He didn’t want to remember his life that way, didn’t want to remember his father panicky or depressed. He wanted to remember him as his best friend, the fun guy who could turn a blue day around. He wanted to remember the five-star hotels and the first-class tickets and the shopping sprees.

  “What did you mean when you said that I don’t know what’s real?” Jules asked.

  “I was mad.”

  “Yeah. I got that memo. But you still meant it.”

  March let a few seconds go by. “I meant you don’t know that Alfie loved you. I mean know it, like, in your bones.”

  There was a long pause. “And you do.”

  “Yeah,” March said. “I do. And I know that he loved you, too.”

  Jules brushed at her face. It was either a tear or a mosquito. “I didn’t know him. Not like you did.”

  “I didn’t know all of him. I didn’t like all of him.”

  “Maybe …” Jules’s voice was soft. “Maybe I’ll just never forgive him for handing me off to Blue. No matter how hard I try.”

  “You know why he did it. He had to separate us to save us.”

  “The curse. I know. Why doesn’t knowing make stuff hurt less?” Jules made a telescope out of her cupped hands and looked at the moon.

  “Maybe I don’t see the whole picture.”

  Jules swiveled the telescope and looked at him. “Maybe nobody does when it comes to parents. Maybe it’s all too close up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know we were all basically raised by wolves, but compared to Alfie or Mikki, Blue is … I mean, at least Mikki loves D. Even Izzy’s parents probably cared about her. They just failed at parenthood, right? Blue just didn’t … care. I made all these excuses, for years and years. The only thing she cares about is making herself into some kind of cult superstar. She’d do things like forget my birthday or not show up somewhere to pick me up when she promised, or whatever it was that meant I was just intruding on her life … and she’d just say, ‘I don’t brake for feelings,’ or ‘Crying is for l
osers.’ Basically she let me know, every day, in every way, she was always the most important person in the room. I can’t believe Alfie picked her to raise me.”

  “He didn’t have much choice,” March said. Jules shot him a look, and he knew what it meant.

  He was making excuses again.

  They regarded the stars for a moment. They looked like dust.

  “Should we go through all the things that can go wrong?” Jules asked.

  “Too many to count at the moment,” March said. “Which one is the North Star?”

  “No idea.”

  “We should know. What if we get lost?”

  “We have GPS.” Jules nudged him with her bare foot. “If not, we’ll be lost together.”

  The two-seater kayaks were delivered and dumped on the lawn. Izzy read aloud from a HOW TO KAYAK SAFELY guide. None of them had any experience on the water except for Jules, who had once rowed around a lake.

  “It doesn’t seem that hard,” Izzy said, looking over the brochure. “You just have to pull together.”

  Mikki eyed the boats with a skeptical glance. “I don’t like boats. You got life preservers?”

  “Comes with the boats,” March assured her.

  Dimmy happily agreed to drive them to the beach.

  “Of course kayaks fit in back!” he said. “Big American truck fits everything! Tonight, we celebrate! Barbecue!”

  “Hate to break this up, but we’ve gotta fly,” Darius said, glowering.

  “Go ahead now. Be careful and wear those life preservers and don’t swim if you eat something!” Mikki waved at them energetically.

  Dimmy drove slowly and carefully, tapping his fingers along with the radio. “Your mother is like a dream to me,” he told Darius. “So lucky to have crashed into her.”

  “Yeah,” Darius said. “And if you hurt her heart, I break your face.”

  “Ha-ha, American joke!”

  “Not really.”

  Dimmy dropped them off in the parking lot. “Now I go take your mother to pick up beautiful T-bird car,” he said. “It’s ready to zoom-ba. Call when you want pickup.” Dimmy waved. “So nice to be part of this beautiful family!”

  “You see what I mean?” Darius grumbled. “He’s pushy.”

  They changed in the beach bathroom into identical outfits of white polos, white shorts, white socks, and sneakers. They pulled on sun visors. It was the one photo Izzy had managed to pull off the web, when the Wild Duck Golf Club had hosted a charity tournament. It was clear that all the help, including the caddies, wore a basic uniform.

  Izzy settled into the kayak, and Darius pushed it off, then hopped in behind her.

  “Not bad for a city boy. Hand me the oar, Iz.”

  “It’s called a paddle,” Izzy said.

  “Oh, right. I remember that from when I rowed crew at Harvard.”

  “That’s called an oar.”

  March placed his backpack carefully in the kayak and stepped in gingerly. Jules pushed them off and scrambled into her seat. The kayak wobbled alarmingly, but Jules grabbed the paddle with a show of confidence. “We can do this. How hard can it be?”

  She dug her paddle into the water, and the kayak whirled in a circle.

  “Uh, Jules? We’re supposed to go forward,” March pointed out.

  “I’ll get the hang of it,” Jules said as they slid sideways and began to drift back toward the beach.

  Somehow, while Izzy instructed them (left, right, left, right), they managed to get the two kayaks to cut through the water. March had studied a website about kayaking in Miami waterways and had memorized the landmarks he needed to know. They found the turning into the river easily. Soon the golf club loomed ahead, all lush green grass and gentle hills.

  They pulled the kayaks up, scraping over roots and trees. They covered the kayaks with a few branches of brush and climbed a steep slope onto the green.

  “Just remember,” March said. “Look busy. Act like you’ve got someplace to go.” Everyone nodded. “D? Remember, your mark’s name is Ann Calloway.”

  Darius pressed his lips together. “I know my mark.”

  “And call in a quiet place, so it sounds like you’re in an office.”

  “I’ll try not to be stupid, okay?”

  There was a pause that March felt too raw and edgy to fill. “All right. See you in fifteen minutes.”

  March struck out across the course. His face felt hot, and not because of the humidity. He had to push it all away. He had to focus. It all depended on him now. If he didn’t get into the club, they’d have to cancel the plan and think of something else. The chances of there actually being another way to get at the stone weren’t good. This was their best shot.

  Shake off the nerves.

  I get it, Pop. But how do you shake off nerves when they’ve got their claws in your skull?

  March trotted briskly down the curving walk. He had counted on the fact that the golf club was big and exclusive, and that meant there would be plenty of employees, all dressed just like him. There’s always a new guy, Alfie used to say. Every time he passed someone in white shorts and a white polo, he gave what he thought of as The Smile, a quick grin that said, Hiya, I’m a great guy, but I’m super busy.

  The main clubhouse was ahead, a golden Spanish-style McMansion with a circular drive in front. Magenta bougainvillea bloomed, and the grass was a chemical green, so bright it hurt.

  He oriented himself from the satellite map in his head. On his left was the blue glint of the pool. It was deserted except for Trini Abbo, who was swimming laps. Izzy had come through! March didn’t break stride, but he let out the breath he’d been holding. He felt the fizz and the pop of a job kicking into gear.

  Two bodyguards sat at a small table, reading the paper and sweating in their suits.

  March crossed to the main entrance. The cool blast of air felt good against his face. He had to figure out where the spa entrance was, and quickly. He didn’t want to look like he was lost. He struck out across the lobby with an air of purpose.

  S P A

  As soon as he glimpsed the sign, he swiveled to the left and pushed through a pair of ornate walnut doors. Straight ahead was a young woman at the reception desk. He gave her The Smile and kept on going.

  “Hey, hold on!”

  March stopped. He turned slowly as pinpricks of nerves danced on his scalp.

  “You don’t have your ID card.”

  “It’s my first day. Mr. Darwin said to check at personnel, but Marie didn’t have one yet.”

  The woman gave a shrug. “Typical. You’ll need it to get through the spa doors. Here.” She held out a plastic card on a beaded necklace. “Just keep a guest card until they come through.”

  March grabbed it and hung it around his neck. “Great. Thanks. I’m Matt.”

  “Kelly. Welcome to the most beautiful and exclusive golf club in Miami.” She rolled her eyes. “We’re supposed to say that.”

  “Got it.” March headed for the door, exhaling slowly. He held the key card up to the pad and heard the lock disengage.

  He hurried down a long corridor. Most of the doors had discreet labels: MASSAGE ROOM. LOCKER ROOM. TREATMENT ROOM. At the end of the corridor were double doors with frosted glass. Etched on it was JUICE BAR.

  He pushed open the door. It was a small room painted in a soft shade of peach. A long counter was against a wall, and a guy in white shorts stood behind it, pouring strawberries into a blender. About ten small round metal tables with bright turquoise chairs dotted the room. Two potted trees flanked double doors that led out to the pool. Plants lined a wide windowsill. Perfect. March placed his backpack next to them.

  “Hey,” March said as the guy turned. “I’m Matt. It’s my first day.”

  “Didn’t hear you were coming. Typical. Sandro. It’s slow right now, but it’ll pick up when the Pilates class is over. It’s about time they sent somebody to help out.”

  “I’m supposed to water the plants.”

  “
Go for it.” Sandro waved a hand at a narrow door. March opened it and found a watering can. He filled it at the utility sink behind the counter, then crossed to the plants.

  Sandro’s back was turned as he chopped fruit. March lifted the backpack and checked the big plastic soda bottles he’d left by Mikki’s garbage. He’d cut off the tops and inverted them into the bottles after he’d put a big dollop of jam on the bottom and a screen on top.

  The flies were thick in the bottles, buzzing and batting angrily against the plastic.

  He placed them inside the planters and wedged them carefully amid the leafy plants.

  Izzy and Jules should already be at the gate. Along with, he hoped, every aspiring model in Miami, thanks to their ad on several online sites.

  CASTING OPEN CALL

  Teens/Tweens. Male or Female | Age: 12–15. | Role Type: Background, Main. Teens/tweens and Moms wanted for new Miami-based reality series, SUPER SPORTS MOMS OF MIAMI. Teenagers must wear white polo, white shorts, white visor, white sneakers. Background casting plus auditions for main roles. Moms must wear golf or tennis gear. Wild Duck Golf Club, 201 North Marsh Drive. NO CALLS OR EMAILS WILL BE ACCEPTED.

  It was the orange vest scheme, but in white this time.

  “Hey, Sandro, I’ve got to stack the pool towels,” March called. “I’ll be back!”

  Sandro waved him off. March pushed open the exterior door, which closed behind him with a soft click. Trini was still swimming laps. He hurried down the slate walkway underneath the royal palms, then cut across the lawn toward the driveway.

  As he drew closer to the entrance, he began to hear the static of high-pitched angry conversation. A horn honked with three impatient bleats.

  March turned the corner. A line of at least fifty cars trailed from the guardhouse down the lane. More were turning onto the road. Some of the teens and moms had exited the cars and were marching toward the entrance. It was even better than he’d expected! An army of tween and teen models in white shorts and white polos.

  March spotted Izzy and Jules at the guardhouse. Right on time. The guard had the phone pressed to his ear.