Hush, Hush

Chapter 18

On the drive back, patch took the Topsham exit and parked alongside the historic Topsham paper mill sitting on the bank of the Androscoggin River. At one point, the mill had been used to turn tree pulp into paper. Now a big sign across the side of the building read SEA DOG BREWING CO. The river was wide and choppy, with mature trees shooting up on both sides.

It was still raining hard, and night had settled down around us. I had to beat my mom home. I hadn't told her I was going out because… well, the honest truth was, Patch wasn't the kind of guy mothers smiled on. He was the kind of guy they changed the house locks for.

"Can we get takeout?" I asked.

Patch opened the driver's-side door. "Any requests?"

"A turkey sandwich. But no pickles. Oh, and no mayonnaise."

I could tell I'd earned one of his smiles that never quite made it to the surface. I seemed to earn a lot of those. This time, I couldn't figure out what I'd said.

"I'll see what I can do," he said, sliding out.

Patch left the keys in the ignition and the heater pumping. For the first couple of minutes, I replayed our evening so far in my mind. And then it dawned on me that I was alone in Patch's Jeep. His private space.

If I were Patch, and I wanted to hide something highly secretive, I wouldn't hide it in my room, my school locker, or even my backpack, all of which could be confiscated or searched without warning. I'd hide it in my shiny black Jeep with the sophisticated alarm system.

I unbuckled my seat belt and rummaged through the stack of textbooks near my feet, feeling a mysterious smile creep to my mouth at the thought of uncovering one of Patch's secrets. I wasn't expecting to find anything in particular; I would have settled for the combination to his locker or his cell phone number. Toeing around old school assignments cluttering the floor mats, I found a faded pine-scented air freshener, an AC/DC Highway to Hell CD, pencil stubs, and a receipt from the 7-Eleven dated Wednesday at 10:18 p.m. Nothing especially surprising or revealing.

I popped open the glove compartment and sifted through the operating manual and other official documents. There was a gleam of chrome, and my fingertips brushed metal. I pulled out a steel flashlight and turned it on, but nothing happened. I unscrewed the bottom, thinking the flashlight felt a little light, and sure enough, there were no batteries. I wondered why Patch kept a nonworking flashlight stored in his glove compartment. It was the last thought I had before my eyes homed in on the rust) liquid that had dried at one end of the flashlight.

Blood.

Very carefully, I returned the flashlight to the glove compartment and shut it out of sight. I told myself there were lots of things that would leave blood on a flashlight. Like holding it with an injured hand, using it to push a dead animal to the side of the road… swinging it with force against a body repeatedly until it broke skin.

With my heart thundering, I jumped on the first conclusion that presented itself. Patch had lied. He'd attacked Marcie. He'd dropped me off Wednesday evening, traded his motorcycle for the Jeep, and gone out looking for her. Or maybe their paths had intersected by chance and he'd acted on impulse. Either way, Marcie was hurt, the police were involved, and Patch was guilty.

Rationally, I knew it was a quick draw and a big leap, but emotionally, the stakes were too high to step back and think it over. Patch had a frightening past and many, many secrets. If brutal and senseless violence was one of them, I wasn't safe riding around alone with him.

A flash of distant lightning brightened the horizon. Patch exited the restaurant and jogged across the parking lot holding a brown bag in one hand and two sodas in the other. He went around to the driver's side and ducked inside the Jeep. He lifted his ball cap and scrubbed rain out of his hair. Dark waves flipped up everywhere. He handed me the brown bag. "One turkey sandwich, hold the mayo and pickles, and something to wash it down."

"Did you attack Marcie Millar?" I asked quietly. "I want the truth-now."

Patch lowered his 7UP from his mouth. His eyes sliced into mine. "What?"

"The flashlight in your glove compartment. Explain it."

"You went through my glove compartment?" He didn't sound annoyed, but he didn't sound pleased, either.

"The flashlight has dried blood on it. The police came to my house earlier. They think I'm involved. Marcie was attacked Wednesday night, right after I told you how much I can't stand her."

Patch gave a curt laugh, minus the humor. "You think I used the flashlight to beat up Marcie."

He reached behind his seat and dragged out a large gun. I screamed.

He leaned over and sealed my mouth with his hand. "Paintball gun," he said. His tone had chilled.

I divided looks between the gun and Patch, feeling a lot of white showing around my eyes.

"I played paintball earlier this week," he said. "I thought we went over this."

"Th-that doesn't explain the blood on the flashlight."

"Not blood," he said, "paint. We were playing Capture the Flag."

My eyes shifted back to the glove compartment storing the flashlight. The flashlight was… the flag. A mix of relief, idiocy, and guilt at accusing Patch swam through me. "Oh," I said lamely. "I'm-sorry." But it seemed a little too late for sorry.

Patch stared straight ahead through the windshield, his breathing deep. I wondered if he was using the silence to let go of a little steam. I had just accused him of assault, after all. I felt terrible about it, but my mind was too rattled to come up with the right apology.

"From your description of Marcie, it sounds like she's probably racked up a few enemies," he said.

"I'm pretty sure Vee and I top the list," I said, trying to lighten the mood, but not entirely joking, either.

Patch pulled up to the farmhouse and killed the engine. His ball cap was low over his eyes, but now his mouth held the suggestion of a smile. His lips looked soft and smooth, and I was having a hard time averting my eyes. Most of all, I was grateful he seemed to have forgiven me.

"We're going to have to work on your pool game, Angel," Patch said.

"Speaking of pool." I cleared my throat. "I'd like to know when and how you're going to collect on that… thing I owe you."

"Not tonight." His eyes watched mine closely, judging my response. I was caught between an easing of my mind and disappointment. But mostly disappointment.

"I have something for you," Patch said. He reached under his seat and pulled out a white paper bag with red chili peppers printed across it. A to-go bag from the Borderline. He set it between us.

"What's this for?" I asked, peeking inside the bag, having absolutely no idea as to what might be inside.

'Open it."

I pulled a brown cardboard box out of the to-go bag and lifted the lid. Inside was a snow globe with a miniature Delphic Seaport Amusement Park captured inside. Brass wires were bent roughly into a circle for the Ferris wheel and twisting loops for the roller coaster; flat sheets of tarnished metal formed the Magic Carpet ride.

"It's beautiful," I said, a little astonished that Patch had thought of me, let alone gone to the trouble of buying me a present. "Thank you. I mean it. I love it."

He touched the curved glass. "There's the Archangel, before it was remodeled." Behind the Ferris wheel a thin wire ribboned to form the hills and valleys of the Archangel. An angel with broken wings stood at the highest point, bowing his head, gazing down without eyes. "What really happened the night we rode it together?" I asked.

"You don't want to know."

"If you tell me you'll have to kill me?" I half joked.

"We're not alone," Patch answered, looking through the windshield.

I glanced up and caught my mom standing in the open doorway. To my horror, she stepped out and walked toward the Jeep.

"Let me do all the talking," I said, stuffing the snow globe back in the box. "Don't say a word-not one word!"

Patch hopped out and came around for my door. We met my mom halfway up the driveway.

"I didn't know you were going out," she told me, smiling, but not in a relaxed way. It was a smile that said, We'l1 talk later.

"It was sort of last minute," I explained.

"I came home right after yoga," she said. The rest was implied. Lucky for me, not so lucky for you. I'd been counting on her going out for smoothies with her friends after class. Nine times out of ten, she did. She turned her attention to Patch. "It's nice to finally meet you. Apparently my daughter's a big fan."

I opened my mouth to give an extremely concise introduction and send Patch on his way, but Mom beat me to it. "I'm Nora's mom. Blythe Grey."

"This is Patch," I said, racking my brain for something to say that would bring the pleasantries to an abrupt halt. But the only things I could think of were screaming Fire! or faking a seizure. Somehow, both seemed more humiliating than braving a conversation between Patch and my mom.

"Nora tells me you're a swimmer," Mom said.

I felt Patch shake with laughter beside me. "A swimmer?"

"Are you on the school swim team, or is it a city league?"

"More… recreational," said Patch, passing me a questioning glance.

"Well recreational is good too," Mom said. "Where do you swim? The rec center?"

"I'm more of an outdoor guy. Rivers and lakes."

"Isn't that cold?" asked Mom.

At my side, Patch jerked. I wondered what I'd missed. Nothing about the conversation seemed out of the ordinary. And I had to side with my mom on this one. Maine was not a warm, tropical place. Outdoor swimming was cold, even in the summertime. If Patch really was swimming outdoors, he was either crazy or he had a high pain threshold.

"All right!" I said, taking advantage of the lull. "Patch needs to get going." Go! I mouthed at him.

That's a very nice Jeep," Mom said. "Did your parents buy it for you?"

"I got it myself."

"You must have quite a job."

"I bus tables at the Borderline."

Patch was saying as little as possible, keeping himself carefully shadowed in mystery. I wondered what his life was like when he wasn't around me. At the way back of my mind, I couldn't stop thinking about his frightening past. Up until now I'd fantasized about discovering his deep, dark secrets because I wanted to prove to myself and to Patch that I was capable of figuring him out. But now I wanted to know his secrets because they were a part of him.

And despite the fact that I routinely tried to deny it, I felt something for him. The more time I spent with him, the more I knew the feelings weren't going away.

Mom frowned. "I hope work doesn't get in the way of studying. Personally, I don't believe high school students should work during the school year. You have enough on your plates already."

Patch smiled. "It hasn't been a problem."

"Mind if I ask your GPA?" Mom said. "Is that too rude?"

"Gee, it's getting late-," I began loudly, consulting the watch I didn't wear. I couldn't believe my mom was being so uncool about this. It was a bad sign. It could only mean her first impression of Patch was worse than I'd feared. This wasn't an introduction. It was an interview.

"Two-point-two," Patch said.

My mom stared at him.

"He's joking," I said quickly. I gave Patch a discreet push in the direction of the Jeep. "Patch has things to do. Places to go. Pool to play-" I clamped a hand over my mouth.

"Play?" my mom said, sounding confused.

"Nora's referring to Bo's Arcade," Patch explained. "But that's not where I'm headed. I've got a few errands to run."

"I've never been to Bo's," she said.

"It's not all that exciting," I said. "You're not missing anything."

"Wait," said Mom, sounding a lot like a red flag had just sprung up in her memory. "Is it out on the coast? Close to Delphic Seaport? Wasn't there a shootout at Bo's several years ago?"

"It's tamer than it used to be," Patch said. I narrowed my eyes at him. He'd beaten me to the punch. I'd planned on outright lying about Bo's having any history of violence.

"Would you like to come in for ice cream?" Mom asked, sounding flustered, caught between doing the polite thing and acting on the impulse to drag me inside and bolt the door. "We only have vanilla," she added to sour the deal. "It's a few weeks old."

Patch shook his head. "I've got to get going. Maybe next time. It was nice meeting you, Blythe."

I took the break in conversation as my cue and pulled my mom toward the front door, relieved that the conversation hadn't been as bad as it could have been. Suddenly Mom turned back.

"What did you and Nora do tonight?" she asked Patch.

Patch looked at me and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

"We grabbed dinner in Topsham," I answered quickly. "Sandwiches and sodas. Purely harmless night."

The trouble was, my feelings for Patch weren't 't harmless.