Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(65)

Next, I google the Our Lady of Mercy Catholic School in Lower Rockville. Find their contact number, dial it on my cell, and drape a washcloth over the mouthpiece to help disguise my voice.

“Our Lady of Mercy,” a cheery female secretary answers.

“Yes. Good morning,” I say, in a low, gravelly tone. “This is Mr. Harriwick. Helen Harriwick’s father.”

“Is she a student here?”

“No. Not yet. But we’ve recently applied.”

“Oh, well, all applications are currently being reviewed, sir. The responses will be sent in the mail over the next few weeks.”

“Yes. I understand that. But the thing is, I wanted to withdraw our application.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. I don’t have access to the forms.”

Damn it. All right. I need another approach. “Well, then. Can you give a note to the person who does have access? Telling them to throw away the form?”

“Your daughter is under no obligation to come to the school, sir,” the secretary says. “If you receive an acceptance letter, you can simply discard it.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to receive a letter from your school. Of any kind.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand. Just don’t send us a letter. Accepting or rejecting us. We don’t like to waste paper, you see. My wife cries every time we receive any kind of junk mail. We’re trying to decrease our ecological footprints . . . feetprint . . . I mean . . . Look, we don’t want you killing any trees for us.”

“Uh . . . okay. Let me see what I can do. What was the last name again?” the secretary asks.

“Harriwick.”

“Can you spell that?”

“Of course I can spell it. It’s my last name. What kind of question is that?”

“Right. Well. Would you spell it for me, then? So I can look it up.”

“Oh. Yes. Fine. It’s H-A-R . . .” Crap. You’d think I’d know this. But actually, I’ve only seen it the one time on the application. And I didn’t even write that. I sound it out in my head. Har-ah-wick. Har-oh-wick. Har-eh-wick. If I get it wrong, they’ll know I’m not her dad for sure. And that’ll raise suspicion. Which could —

“Sir?” the secretary says.

“Yes?”

“The name? H-A-R . . .”

“Actually,” I say. “Now that I think about it. Let’s just leave it alone. Better to keep all our options open, right? I’ll deal with the wife’s tears. But, um . . . you said that the letters will be sent out in the next few weeks?”

“Over these next few weeks. Yes. Although, to be honest, I believe some have already been mailed. If you’d like —”

“Shit.”

“Excuse me?”

Uh-oh. Did I say that out loud? “Um. Nothing. I just . . . stepped on the cat. Thanks for your help. Good-bye.”

I click off my cell phone and start pacing around the room. Okay, think. Her application was sent in close to the deadline. So, it won’t be one of the first they look at. Still, who knows how many people apply in the middle of the school year. Probably not a lot. Therefore, it’s possible the letter — rejection or acceptance — is already on its way. Which means I’ve only got one choice.


I kill a couple of hours on Xbox, wandering around Renaissance Italy searching for religious treasures and assassinating conspirators who try to get in my way. Just to give whoever delivers Helen’s mail time to start their rounds. If I’m lucky — not something I can exactly count on these days — the letter will be waiting in Helen’s mailbox ready for me to pluck out and tear up. If it doesn’t arrive today, I’ll just have to check back every day until it does.

As I coast up to Helen’s house on my bike, I survey the neighborhood. Nobody’s around, so I wheel my bike up the drive. Lay it down quietly on the ground. Then I walk super-quiet up onto the porch, holding my breath, praying Mrs. Harriwick is sequestered in the back of the house.

The black metal mailbox is secured to the right of the front door, above the doorbell. A little gold eagle sits on top of the latch. I reach over and raise the cover. It squeaks a little as I lift it.

It’s stuffed with mail. I have to wiggle the mass of papers out of the cramped box, careful not to let the mailbox cover slam back down. There are several Christmas catalogs here, a few letters from the bank, a bunch from the medical center, a Visa bill, a couple of Christmas cards, something from the phone company, but absolutely nothing from Our Lady of Mercy.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps inside the house, coming toward the front door.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

I try to slip the mail discretely back into the box, but there’s way too much. It won’t all fit in. The dead bolt snicks, sending my pulse soaring. I jam the letters and catalogs in, folding and crumpling them up, getting everything in just as the doorknob starts to turn.

I leap back and lift my hand like I was about to knock as the front door swings open.

“Oh. Hello, Cooper,” Mrs. Harriwick says from behind the screen. “What are you doing here?”

Think. Fast. “Hi there . . . um . . . Is Helen home?” My voice cracks a bit.

“No. She’s at school. Isn’t that where you should be?”