Michael Vey: Prisoner of Cell 25

Chapter 27: Hitching a Ride

Jack lived about twelve blocks from my home, in a poor neighborhood. I found his address in the school directory, then went to see him.

Jack's house was at the end of a short, dead-end road called Leslie Street: an aged box of a home with chipped aluminum siding and faded cloth awnings. The front window had been broken and was covered with cardboard that was kept in place with duct tape. The yard was overgrown with weeds and pyracantha bushes. There were at least six cars at the house, some of them parked on the grass or on the road in front, most with flat tires and rusted bodies. Only one or two of them looked like they might actually run.

I climbed three steps to the Astroturf-covered porch. The doorbell had yellowed masking tape over it with the word BROKE written in marker. I opened the rusted screen door and knocked on the wood door behind it. A minute or so later Jack answered. He was wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, exposing his muscular arms and shoulders, as well as his tattoo. I forced myself not to blink. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm listening."

The TV was blaring behind him and I wondered if someone else was inside. "Not here. I need to talk to you someplace more private."

"Why?"

"I just do."

He looked at me for a moment, then stepped out on the front porch, shutting the door behind him. "Go ahead. My old man can't hear you."

"I need a ride."

"You think I'm your chauffeur now?"

"To Pasadena."

His face looked even more distressed. "Isn't that, like, in California?"

"Yeah."

"Man, what is this, a shakedown? I went to Dallstrom like you said. I'm not going to let you keep bullying me. I'll go to the teachers and tell them what you did."

"Calm down," I said. "I'm not here to bully you. You're the only one I can go to with this."

"Why not your old man?"

"I don't have a father."

"Then your mother?"

"Don't you watch the news?"

"No."

"My mother was kidnapped. I'm pretty sure she's in Pasadena. That's why I need a ride there."

"Why don't you call the police?"

"It's complicated. They can't help."

"Dude, I'm not driving all the way to California."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of bills I had taken from mom's secret stash. "Look, I've got money. I'll pay you three hundred dollars. It's all I've got."

He eyed the money. I could tell he was wavering. "Where'd you get that kind of dough?"

"It's my mom's emergency stash."

"Three hundred bucks, huh? When do you need to go?"

"As soon as possible."

"Just us?"

"And my friend Ostin."

"What if I bring someone? To help drive."

"Who?"

"Wade."

I hated Wade even more than Mitchell, but if it got me to California sooner, I'd deal with it. "Okay."