The Long Way Home Page 3

  Billy glared at the two boys for a moment, deciding whether they were worth the trouble. He looked up and down the street—most bullies, Brian believed, had a kind of grown-up radar—and then he gave them the double-bird and pushed off, disappearing around the corner.

  Brian sat down in the grassy front yard and let out a deep breath. “Jesus, Jimmy, you and your big mouth.”

  Jimmy plopped down next to him. “I think we could take him.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “He’s not that tough.”

  “He’s fifteen. We’re twelve. He smokes and has arms the size of our legs. We still have sleepovers.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Nothing wrong with sleepovers. They’re fun.”

  Brian couldn’t argue with that, so he laid back and stared at the passing clouds overhead. Jimmy plucked blades of grass and flicked them into the air, one after the other. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.

  Jimmy finally broke the silence. “This sucks. Second week of summer vacation and we’re already bored.”

  “At least you were at the lake all last week,” Brian said, squinting at a cloud that resembled an alligator.

  “Yeah, with my mom and dad. Like that’s any fun. You have any idea how much sunscreen my Mom makes me wear?”

  Brian laughed. He did have an idea. He had seen it many times firsthand at the neighborhood swimming pool. When Jimmy’s mom was finished with him, Jimmy looked like a skinny, little Yeti ready to prowl a snowy mountaintop.

  “And my Dad…did you know he still wears a Speedo?”

  Brian belly-laughed. He couldn’t help it.

  “Not funny, dude. It’s freaking embarrassing. You can practically see his junk.”

  Thinking about Mr. Gallagher’s junk was not a pretty picture. Jimmy’s old man weighed about three hundred pounds—and that was naked. How he had produced a beanpole of a son (that’s what he always called Jimmy) was a mystery to everyone.

  Brian shook away the disturbing image, sat up and patted Jimmy on the back. “C’mon, let’s play another game of Horse.”

  Jimmy groaned and pushed himself to his feet just as a van slowed out on the road and swung into the driveway next door. The boys watched a middle-aged man, tall and thin, bald and wearing thick glasses, get out of the van and walk toward the house.

  “Hi, Mr. Pruitt,” Jimmy yelled, waving.

  The man flinched, like he had been woken from a daydream, and looked over at the boys. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it again and gave them a shy wave before disappearing into the front door.

  “That was weird,” Brian said.

  Jimmy nodded, still staring at the closed front door. “He’s been like that for awhile now. My mom says it’s because he’s still in mourning.”

  “Didn’t Mrs. Pruitt die like a year ago?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “My mom says it takes a long time, especially when you’ve been together for so many years.” And, just like that, Jimmy was thinking about Mrs. Pruitt’s kind face and her sweet voice and her chocolate chip cookies—and he felt his eyes filling up.

  “You okay, man?” Brian asked.

  Jimmy turned away, wiping at his eyes. “I’m fine. It’s just sad, that’s all. I feel sorry for him.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I don’t ever want to get married,” Jimmy said.

  “No worries there, retard. What chick is gonna be dumb enough to marry your ugly ass?”

  Jimmy was bright enough in the ways of childhood to understand the twelve-year-old translation of this insult was: it’s all gonna be okay, buddy—so he returned the favor.

  “Plenty…starting with your naked sister.”

  Brian tackled him and the two boys rolled around in the front yard, laughing and wrestling, until Jimmy’s mom poked her head out the front door a few minutes later and called him inside for dinner.

  ****

  Later that evening, a June thunderstorm swept in from the north, turning curbside gutters into miniature rapids and knocking out electricity for most of the town, including both sides of Jimmy’s street.

  By ten o’clock the next morning, the storm had cleared out, the sky was a brilliant, robin-egg blue, and the electric was back up and running at Jimmy’s house.

  Jimmy and Brian sat across from each other on the front porch. Half-finished glasses of lemonade and stacks of baseball cards covered the small table, which sat between them. After an hour of intense bargaining (arguing) about fair trades, both boys were slumped back in plastic patio chairs, staring at the screens of their cellphones.

  “Damn it,” Jimmy moaned and tossed his phone onto the table, knocking over a pile of cards. “I’m getting tired of Hearthstone.”

  Brian looked up from his phone. “That’s because you suck at Hearthstone.”

  Jimmy ignored the dig and sat up in his chair, an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. “Can I tell you something?”

  Brian recognized the tone of his friend’s voice and knew it was something important. The last time he’d heard that tone of voice was when Jimmy confided in him about seeing Jan Thompson changing into a bathing suit through her bedroom window. He was eleven then.

  Brian turned off his game. “Sure, what’s up?”

  “You promise not to laugh?”

  Brian shrugged. “I promise to try not to. What’s going on, man?”

  Jimmy looked over his left shoulder at the house, and then over his right at the front yard. Seemingly content that no one was eavesdropping, he scooted his chair closer to Brian. Lowered his voice. “You remember what we were talking about yesterday…about Mr. Pruitt?”

  “About him being sad?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “About him being different, acting weird.”

  “Okay, yeah.”

  Jimmy looked over his shoulder again in the direction of his next-door neighbor’s house, then back at Brian. “I was thinking about it last night…remembering things.” He took a deep breath. “I think something bad might be going on over there.”

  “What exactly does something bad mean?” Brian slid his chair a little closer.

  Jimmy thought about it for a moment before answering. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”

  “Just tell me what you—”

  “I think Mr. Pruitt might be a serial killer.”

  Brian laughed in his friend’s face, then immediately regretted it as he watched Jimmy’s cheeks flush beet-red in anger and embarrassment.

  “You promised!” Jimmy hissed, jumping to his feet and heading off the porch.

  Brian chased after him. “I promised to try not to laugh, and I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry, man, but Mr. Pruitt a serial killer? That’s just nutty.”

  Jimmy spun on him, his eyes darting all around the yard. “Keep your voice down.”

  Brian whispered, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”

  “C’mon.” Jimmy led Brian across the still-soggy front lawn, away from the house, to the curb, where they sat side by side, their bare feet resting in the slow-trickling run-off that still flowed down the street toward a distant sewer grate.

  Jimmy sat there silently, pouting, staring down at the ground. He flicked a pebble onto the road with his big toe. Cleared his throat. Coughed. Finally, he looked up at Brian and said, “I’ve seen things. Heard things.”

  “Things…” Brian said. “Like the time you thought you saw a UFO landing in the woods behind the park? Or the time you thought you saw the librarian from school holding up a bank on the evening news?”

  “The lady in the security video looked just like her and—”

  Brian put out his hands in surrender. “All I’m saying is that you watch a lot of movies and have a big imagination and tell a lot of crazy stories.” He glanced at the house next door. “Mr. Pruitt is a cool
guy. Remember when he helped us fix our go-cart? And when he bought all our lemonade when no one else was even slowing down to take a look?”

  “I know he’s a nice guy, Brian.”

  “How about when he covered for us to your parents the night we were bombing cars with snowballs? He saved our asses.”

  “Look, I know Mr. Pruitt has always been nice to us. But my mom is right—he’s changed since his wife died.”

  “So what, he’s quiet now, keeps to himself, maybe he’s a little weird. Doesn’t make him a serial killer.”

  “I’ve heard screams over there.”

  Brian looked closely at his friend. “Screams?”

  Jimmy nodded. “Couple of times.”

  “And you’re sure?”

  “First time, I was raking grass in the back yard and I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what I’d heard. But the next evening, I was back there shooting my BB gun and I heard it again.” Jimmy nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  “The van.”

  “What about it?”

  “What does an old guy like that need with a van? I mean, why trade in a perfectly good Cadillac for a van when you’re all alone?”

  Brian shrugged. “Maybe the Cadillac reminded him too much of his wife.”

  “And he’s been shopping a lot. Every day he brings home something new.”

  “So what?”

  “What’s he need with a video camera and a tripod? I watched him haul in two metal cages another day. What’s he need cages for?”

  “Maybe he bought a dog.”

  “Must be the kind of dog that never needs to go outside then.”

  Brian rolled his eyes. “What else, Sherlock?”

  “The other night, I was helping my dad lay down mulch in the front yard when Mr. Pruitt came home. He’d backed the van into the driveway and was unloading something into his carport, so my dad sent me over there to help. But he didn’t want my help. He acted all nervous and pretty much shooed my ass outta there. But I saw some of what he was unloading…”

  “What was it?”

  “I didn’t really know at first. It was all these big sheets of insulation and big foam panels and boxes of sealant and glue.” Jimmy, dead serious, locked his eyes on his friend’s face. “I looked it up on the internet later that night…I had memorized the exact brands I saw on the boxes. It was all material for sound-proofing a room.”

  Brian looked down at the wet pavement, his mind turning. He knew Jimmy liked to tell stories, he always had, but he also knew Jimmy was the smartest kid in the entire middle school.

  “What do you think?” Jimmy prodded.

  Brian looked up at his friend. “I think I should spend the night at your house tonight—and we should keep a close eye on Mr. Pruitt.”

  ****

  “Be quiet or he’s gonna hear us,” Jimmy whispered.

  “He’s not even home, dork. How’s he gonna hear us?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Despite the serious nature of their investigation, both boys giggled as they crawled on their bellies along the side of Mr. Pruitt’s house. It was dusk now. Fireflies blinked in the creeping darkness. Crickets chirped their night symphony in the tall grass. A hush lay over the neighborhood.

  As the morning had passed into afternoon, and afternoon into evening, the boys’ moods had lightened. They’d spent the majority of the day playing whiffle-ball in the park with their friends and watching high school girls in short-shorts and tank-tops playing Frisbee.

  They’d been disappointed to discover that Mr. Pruitt hadn’t returned home when they’d first come outside after dinner. To pass the time, they’d gone back in the house and watched the first three innings of the Orioles game with Jimmy’s father in the den. Once it was dark enough outside, they’d told Jimmy’s dad that they were going to the store for ice cream and were once again disappointed to find Mr. Pruitt’s driveway and carport still empty.

  Instead of waiting any longer, they’d decided to take advantage of his absence and investigate his ground-level basement windows. Brian led the way, slithering flat on his stomach like a snake, just a dozen or so feet away from the first window, with Jimmy right behind him. For both boys, it felt a lot like playing Army when they were younger.

  “Ugh…I think I just put my elbow in dog crap,” Jimmy whined.

  Brian giggled softly. “Maybe Mr. Pruitt got that dog after all.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  They both shut up and kept crawling.

  After another minute, Brian looked back over his shoulder and asked, “What’re we gonna say if your dad looks out the window and sees us?”

  “That’s easy. We say we’re looking for toads in the window wells. Remember how we used to collect ’em in buckets?”

  “Sometimes I actually forget that you’re so smart. Almost there…”

  Brian crawled another few feet and stopped—and let out a quiet gasp. Jimmy crawled around him and halted at his side, leaning up on his elbows for a better look.

  The narrow basement window had been blacked out. It was hard to tell in the shadows, but it looked like someone had taken thick black tape and covered the inside of the glass with it. Whatever it was, you definitely couldn’t see through it.

  “Believe me now?” Jimmy whispered.

  ****

  “Wake up.”

  Brian went on snoring. Jimmy poked his friend in the ribs again, harder this time. “C’mon, wake up.”

  Brian groaned and rolled onto his side. “Lemme alone.”

  “He’s home,” Jimmy whispered and crawled to the window.

  Brian sat up in his sleeping bag on the floor. “What time is it?”

  “Almost midnight. He just pulled in. Hurry up.”

  Brian kicked his way out of the sleeping bag and, rubbing his eyes, joined his friend at the window. “What’s he doing?”

  “Nothing yet. He’s still in the van.”

  They watched in silence, their faces pressed close to the window. Mr. Pruitt’s lawn and driveway were lost in a spider-web of shadows.

  “You sure he’s still in there?” Brian asked.

  Before Jimmy could answer, the driver’s-side door opened, the van’s interior light flashed on, and the boys had a clear view of Mr. Pruitt stepping out onto the driveway. He closed the door with a muffled thud and the night swallowed him.

  Brian shifted for a better look and bumped his head against the window.

  “Be careful,” Jimmy whispered. “He could hear us.”

  “I can’t see him. Did he go inside?”

  “I never saw the front door open. Maybe he went in the side door under the carport.”

  “Or maybe he’s sneaking over here right now for a closer look at us,” Brian teased. “And he’s wearing a clown mask and carrying a butcher knife.”

  Jimmy punched his friend in the shoulder. “That’s not funny.”

  “Hey, there he is,” Brian whispered, pointing out the window.

  A narrow slice of dim light appeared at the back of the van. The boys squinted into the shadows and could just make out the bottom half of Mr. Pruitt’s legs; the upper half of his body was blocked by the open rear door.

  “What’s he doing?” Jimmy asked.

  “Getting something out of the back of the van I think.”

  “I told you, didn’t I? I told you—”

  The door closed with another thud and even though the driveway was thrown back into shadow, the boys’ eyes had adjusted to the dark well enough for them to catch a glimpse—

  —of Mr. Pruitt disappearing into the carport, carrying a large burlap sack over his shoulder. The sack was moving in jerks and fits, as if whatever was trapped inside were struggling to get out.

  ****

  “Are you crazy? We
can’t call the police. Not yet.”

  It was the next morning, and a sleep-deprived Jimmy was pacing on his front porch. His mother had made the boys a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and toast, and taken off for a day of shopping with one of her girlfriends. Jimmy’s father was at work. The boys had the house to themselves for the rest of the morning and afternoon.

  “What do you mean, not yet?” Brian asked, watching his friend stroll back and forth like one of those lonely tigers you always saw at the zoo. “He could’ve had a little kid in that sack.”

  “Do you have any idea what my father will do to me if we call the police on Mr. Pruitt and we’re wrong? I’ll be grounded for the rest of the summer.”

  “Now we’re wrong? You’re the one who was so sure. You even have me half-convinced!”

  Jimmy stopped pacing. Walked over to his friend. “Listen, we’re not wrong. Something weird is going on over there. We just have to figure out what it is before we tell my parents or call the police.”

  “And how we gonna do that?” Jimmy tilted his head in a way that Brian immediately recognized as trouble.

  “Oh, shit, I know that look.”

  Jimmy smiled. His face was pale and drawn, but his eyes were bright. “Mr. Pruitt never comes home for lunch. Ever. We’re in and out in ten minutes.”

  Brian groaned. “I knew it.”

  “We empty our pockets beforehand. Take nothing we might leave behind on accident. Yes, I learned that from a movie. I’ll set the timer on my watch. Ten minutes and we’re gone, no matter what.”

  “How we getting in? The doors will be locked.”

  Jimmy pulled two objects out of the back pocket of his jeans: a small screwdriver and a laminated GameStop membership card.

  “Uncle Manny?” Brian asked, eyebrows raised.

  Manny was Jimmy’s dad’s black-sheep younger brother. He talked too loud, drank too much, and had actually done time when he was barely in his twenties. He was firecrackers and magic tricks and dirty jokes. A big kid with a heart of gold. The boys loved him.

  Jimmy smiled that tired smile of his and nodded. “Good old Uncle Manny.”

  ****

  “He promised to show me how to hot-wire a car one day, too. He said it’s a lot harder than in the movies.”