What We Saw at Night - By Jacquelyn Mitchard Page 0,68
troubled.”
“Allie?” Gideon called. “You troubled?”
“Yes!” I shrieked in relief. “I mean, no! I mean, I’m in trouble!”
“Not anymore. This guy is leaving now.” He lurched forward and raised the shotgun to his eyes, squinting down the barrel. “Aren’t you, friend?”
Tabor stared back at Gideon. Then he chuckled. With a glance up at me, as amused as it was menacing, he shrugged and marched out of the alley, sidestepping Gideon and slid into his car. “Well, she’s your problem now.”
“Always has been.” Gideon kept his wavering sights trained on the Alfa Romeo until it disappeared around the corner.
Only long after the engine had faded completely, only after the other familiar night sounds had settled over Gitchee Pizza … actually, to be completely honest, only after I heard the loon was I able to muster the strength to leave the roof.
I scrambled down the ladder and rushed into Gideon’s thick arms. I held him tight. The shotgun clattered at his side. He stank of whiskey and cigarettes and garlic. No combination of awful had ever smelled better. I’m not even sure how long I clung to him, but he finally had to extricate me. “Feel like a slice on the house?” he slurred.
I stood on my tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek. “Rain check,” I murmured.
Before he could protest, I scurried for the minivan.
“Thank you, Gideon!” I shouted as I slammed the door. I couldn’t make eye contact; if I did, I might cry. Instead, I drove. I made sure I was halfway home before I dug for my phone. I couldn’t explain the situation to Gideon, but I didn’t want to endanger him in case Garrett Tabor did decide to return with his own gun. I hopped out and threw open the passenger door side, digging under the chair like a squirrel. When I finally found the phone, I realized my eyes were bleary. But it was only 12:05.
I had three texts waiting.
From Rob, at 11:25: Can we talk? Is Juliet w/ u? Can’t find her.
From Juliet, at 11:59: Meet me at Lost Warrior Bridge at 2 A.M. Don’t tell anyone but Rob. Need to trace. Will explain. xoxo
From BLOCKED, at 12:01: Don’t worry, Allie. The wait is almost over. I’m gone as of tomorrow. Forget about me and everything you think you know.
Rob was waiting for me at Lost Warrior Bridge. Juliet must have texted him, too. It was 1:47. He didn’t say a word, just hugged me close.
Lost Warrior Bridge was, in fact, a recreation of something that archaeologists claimed dated back a thousand years. Back to the time of Gideon’s forefathers. Apparently the original bridge had also been built of logs drilled at both ends and joined with thick strands of rope, the ends knotted and crisped under flame to hold fast. It was supposed to be a sacred place, like a museum. But Daytimers still jumped on it and wore it away further, despite its antique beauty.
I’d never actually stood on Lost Warrior Bridge. It was a good hour from Iron Harbor in the opposite direction of Duluth, and the prospect of driving so far to see a bridge recreation (closed to the public at night) was always met with quick dismissal from Jack-Jack. But for some reason the way people treated it had always rubbed me wrong, the way they were so dismissive of history. When I first realized I was falling in love with Rob, he’d asked me, “Do you really think the fake bridge was built to last forever, Allie? The kids who mess with it are part of history, too. For all we know, the original bridge was fake. It might have been a tourist attraction for the Gitchee Tribe.”
He was right. For all we knew, everything was fake. The passage of time stamps a label of authenticity on even the worst bullshit. “History is written by the victors,” Winston Churchill is said to have claimed in his fight against the Nazis—and only now did I understand why Professor Barry Yashida had chosen to include that quote in my pre-John Jay literature. Winston Churchill could have been speaking about criminals who get away with it. If he’d even actually said it. Even that was subject to debate.
Rob stepped away from me and jabbed his finger at his phone. Then he held the screen up to my face. I found myself watching a taped news segment about the imminent departure of the Tabor XP Research mission to Bolivia.