“You go left,” Porter tells me. “I’ll go right. Whichever one of them you find, don’t take your eyes off him.”
“Meet you in the center.” I take off down the stairs, cool air drafting up as I jog. It’s dark and creepy down here, and the metal handrail that’s been here since the museum opened has a clammy feel to it that gives me the heebie-jeebies, so I can’t touch it. This makes running difficult, because caves are dark and damp, and the low lights around the walkway might be great for setting a mood, but they don’t provide much in the way of illumination when you’re chasing someone. Luckily, there aren’t too many people lingering in the cave—and even fewer racing through it. I spot White Polo Shirt a few yards ahead, on another landing.
There isn’t much to see in the cave, especially compared to the rest of the jam-packed museum, just a few info plaques with facts about caves in California and animals that live there, and the occasional bench for hot-blooded people to rest and enjoy the dark and gloomy view. I sail past a woman leaning against one of these benches and head around the pretzel turn toward the red-and-green glow of the main cavern.
Rocky walls lined with organically formed crevices and holes separate the cave into multiple chambers. It’s a great place for hiding, and those little bastards know it. Several people mingle around the main plaque, marking the spot where Jay and Vivian found their pirate gold. A cheesy chest overflowing with carnival doubloons sits atop a flat rock. It’s ridiculous. I’m embarrassed for everyone who has to gaze upon it, including myself.
But more than that, I’m embarrassed that I’ve lost the stupid kid I’m supposed to be trailing. I finally spot Porter, and he acknowledges me with a chin nod, but I can tell by the angle of his brow that he can’t find the backpack kid either. How could this be? I glance around one more time, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot something: two white sneakers slipping through one of the larger hole formations in the rocky cave walls. Not Polo, but the backpack kid. Sneaky little monkey is doubling back up the stairs.
Porter’s attention is elsewhere, and I’m not losing this kid again, so I take off after him. Up I go, back the way I came, twice as fast, pounding the stone steps.
The backpack kid tosses me a glance over his shoulder. He knows I’m chasing him, and he’s not stopping. Too bad. Neither am I.
When he reaches the mouth of the cave, he hesitates long enough to spot his cohort, slamming up the steps on the other side. Then they’re off, racing together through the lobby.
Porter said not to make a scene, but what about now? Do I just let these jerks get away? I quickly decide: No, I don’t.
I book it as fast as I can go, giving chase. They nearly bowl over an entire family, who startle like ducks on a pond, jumping out of their way.
“Someone stop them!” I yell.
No one does.
I think about Porter surrounded by people that horrible day on the beach years ago, when no one would help him save his dad from the shark. If strangers won’t help when someone is dying, they’re definitely not going to stop two kids from running out of a museum.
Pulse swishing in my temples, I race around the information booth, pumping my arms, and watch them split up again. Polo is heading for the easy way out: the main exit, where there’s (1) only a set of doors to go through, and (2) Hector, the laziest employee on staff.
But Backpack is headed for the ticketing booth and the connecting turnstiles. Freddy should be there, but no one’s entering the museum, so he’s instead chatting it up with Hector. The turnstiles are unmanned.
Like a pro hustler who’s never paid a subway fare, Backpack hurdles over the turnstiles in one leap. Impressive. Or it would have been, had his backpack not slipped off his shoulder and the strap not caught on one of the turnstile arms. While he struggles to free it, I take the easier route and make for the wheelchair access gate.
I unhitch the latch.
He frees the strap.
I slip through the gate, and just as he’s turning to run, I lurch forward and—
I jump on his back.
We hit the ground together. The air whooshes out of my lungs and my knee slams into tile. He cries out. I don’t.
I freaking got him.
“Get off me, you crazy bitch!” He squirms below me, elbowing me in the ribs. I clamp my hand over his arm to hold it down. A breathless, evil laugh comes out of me in fits. I can’t even say anything; I’m too winded.
“Oh no you don’t,” a triumphant male voice says nearby.
I twist to the side and spit hair out of my mouth. Porter is dragging Polo by the arm. He doesn’t look half as winded as I feel. Stupid surfer genes. But now Freddy and Hector are coming—to gawk, I guess. And here’s Grace, too; finally, someone with sense.
“What in the world is going on?” she asks.
“Watch him,” Porter tells the three of them as he parks Polo on the ground. Then he pulls me off Backpack.
“She’s crazy,” the boy repeats. “I think she broke my leg.”
“Whatever. She’s got the strength of a tater tot,” Porter says, pulling the boy to his feet, who protests and hobbles, but manages okay.
“Oww,” he whines.
“Shut the hell up, you thieving-ass rat.” Porter grabs the boy by his shirt, wrenches the backpack off his arm, tosses it to me. “Check it.”
I unzip the pack. Nested in a wadded-up hoodie is the statue. I hold it up like a trophy.
The boy groans and tries to wriggle out of Porter’s grip. “Nuh-uh,” Porter says, urging him down next to Polo and pressing the button on his sleeve. “You and your punk-ass friend aren’t going anywhere right now. We’re going to sit tight while my buddy Mr. Pangborn makes a little phone call to our friends at the CCPD. Got that, Pangborn?” he asks into his radio.
“Got it,” Pangborn’s voice answers.
While the boys exchange panicked looks, a small crowd is forming. I brush off my skirt and notice that a small trail of blood runs from a nasty scrape on my knee. I don’t even care. I’m still on an oh-so-sweet adrenaline high.
Porter grins, eyebrows high. “Damn, Bailey. You took him downtown. Full-on atomic drop body slam. I had no idea you had it in you.”
Me neither, to be honest. “No one steals from Sam Spade and gets away with it,” I say.
He holds his hand up, and I slap it, but instead of it being a simple high five, he laces his fingers between mine, squeezing. It’s probably only for a second, but it feels longer. When he releases my hand, I’m a ball of chaos: fingers tingling from where his just were, mind trying to make sense of it. Is he just being friendly, or is this maybe some sort of surfer handshake?
Now he’s crouching in front of me, inspecting my knee. “Ouch,” he says. Gentle fingers prod the skin around my wound. “You busted that up pretty good.”
“Yeah, stop poking it,” I say, but I’m not mad.
“You okay?” he asks in a softer voice.
“It’s fine.”