Chapter 10: THE GETAWAY - PART 3

The boys pedaled across the Upper West Side of the city and made the final left onto 95th Street right into Harwell's driveway. Nausea waved through Max's body when he saw his father's police car parked in the driveway.

"Oh God," he shrieked, "Dad's here. Damn Ritchie, how am I going to get the equipment back in the basement before he notices?" He shivered from a cold sweat and looked over at his friend. "I'm terrified," he finally revealed to his friend.

"You should have thought of that before, Max," Ritchie said coldly. "Listen, I'm heading back to my house."

"You mean you're not going to stand by me?"

"Nope. I told you not to do this." Ritchie wiped the sweat from his upper lip. "See you around," he waved and continued down the driveway.

The door opened, and Jack Harwell waved to his son. "Hey, son."

Max relaxed a bit, hearing his father's upbeat greeting and sensed things were still okay in the life of Max Harwell, the Upper West Side's amateur detective.

"What are you doing home so early?"

"I'm here to pick up the surveillance equipment."

Max's heart kicked up its pace. He swallowed hard just as his legs turned to jelly at the mention of the equipment, and lost control of his bike. He jumped off his bike and let it fall to the ground.

"Are you all right, Max?" his father asked, rushing out onto the porch.

"Yeah, I wasn't paying attention." Max squeezed his shirt, and a small amount of water ran down his leg.

"You're soaked to the gills, son. You got caught in that downpour, huh?"

"Yeah," squeaked out of his mouth. Max held his breath as he walked up the steps. His father's mood confused him. Did he know what Max had been up to this afternoon? He pushed the thought from his mind certain it was his guilty conscience working overtime. He released his pent-up anxiety and walked up the steps to the porch waiting for an introduction to the young man standing next to his father.

"Max, I'd like you to meet Ryan O'Reilly. He's enrolled in the Police Academy for its next session. We're giving him a ride-along so he can see what it's like to be a cop." Max watched his dad lean over toward Ryan and whisper something. He knew what he'd said to the young man...the same thing he told everyone.

Ryan smiled. "The Lieutenant tells me you want to be a law enforcer too."

"Yeah, someday, maybe," he answered on his way over to greet him. Before extending his hand to Ryan, Max wiped his clammy palm on his damp shorts. He thrust his trembling hand toward him and prayed his father wouldn't notice his nervousness.

Max looked at his father. "I need to go to the bathroom, Dad. Really bad," he announced and ran down the hall to the wake of laughter.

He slammed the door, removed the backpack weighing heavily on his shoulders, and rested his back against the door. He clamped his eyes shut as if in pain and wished he'd listened to Ritchie's warning. He said a quick prayer and promised God he'd never touch the surveillance equipment again, ever if he'd help him out of this jam.

He placed his ear flush against the door and strained to hear his father's conversation. He mentally urged his father to stay outside a little longer so he could make a fast trip down to the basement and return the equipment. Instead, their voices sounded closer.

His heart was pounding like a machine gun in battle from worry about his father and Ryan being right on the other side of the door. How was he going to get downstairs to the basement if they went down there before him? His heart accelerated when he heard the basement door open. God, he was in so much trouble.

Waves of nausea made his stomach feel like he had a bad case of seasickness. He ran to the sink and turned on the water, cupping his hands underneath. He filled them with the liquid, brought it to his mouth, and swallowed, wiping the remaining moisture with a hand towel. He resumed his post, straining harder to hear the conversation when he heard Ryan asking for something. Startled by a sharp rap on the bathroom door, Max jumped.

"Are you all right in there, son?"

"Yeah, Dad, I'm okay." His voice cracked.

"Did you eat something that didn't agree with you, son?"

"I guess so."

"Okay, call me if you need anything. Otherwise, join us in the kitchen. Ryan and I are going to have a cold drink."

Max caught a glimpse of his surprised facial expression in the mirror. "I'll be out in a little while." Before resuming his position on his stomach, he looked skyward and said a prayer thankful when he saw the shadow of his father's feet disappear from underneath the doorframe. Satisfied they were gone, he gingerly opened the door and peeked out. When the coast was clear, Max lifted his backpack off the floor and slowly tiptoed toward the basement door, reminding himself there were no second chances on this one.

Slowly pulling the basement door open, he prayed it wouldn't creak and alert his father. Grateful that he got his wish, he walked down the stairs, taking slow, deliberate steps to avoid making any unnecessary noise. With four steps from the bottom, he heard footsteps overhead and rushed to the bottom. Hoisting his heavy backpack up onto the table, he unzipped the bag and removed the equipment, making sure to place it in the same spot, when the recorded confessions came to mind. He flipped the lid open and pulled out the tiny cassette and slipped it into his pocket.

The light flicked on, and he could see his father's feet as he descended each step. His first thought was to hide behind the furnace but ruled it out figuring if he got caught, he'd be in a boatload of trouble...trouble his father knew nothing about...at least not yet. And, he'd never be able to step a foot outside the house again, except to attend school and church.

His stomach cramped with pains so severe it felt as though someone had just punched him in the gut. Max convinced himself to walk back up the steps like a man and face whatever happened. He was exhausted from the events of the morning, and all he wanted to do was go to bed and pretend it never happened.

"Max?" Jack Harwell said quizzically. "What are you doing down here in the dark?"

Man, he was screwing up royally today. "Dad," he pointed toward the window. "It's bright enough outside," he said. "I can see everything, just fine." He turned and smiled as he began to mount the steps, surprised he'd come up with an answer so quickly.

"Oh, that's right," his father grinned. "How could I have forgotten your eyes glow in the dark?"

"Very funny, Dad," he said over his shoulder.

"I guess this means you're okay?"

"Yeah, Dad. I'm fine."

"So, what are you doing down here? I thought you were joining us in the kitchen."

"Well," Max stammered to come up with a logical explanation. "Ah, I wanted to return the hammer I borrowed from your toolbox. Me and Ritchie are building a treehouse over at his place." He chastised himself for the tall tale.

"Ritchie and I," his father corrected.

"Yeah, that's what I meant. Ritchie and I."

"Terrific. I'm sure your mother will be proud of you." He gave a hearty chuckle. "Education in the use of tools is a good thing, especially since I'm not handy around here." He turned to Ryan, "My wife keeps buying me all these tools," his hand swayed to the pegboard. "She thinks it will give me the incentive to learn, but I have two left hands when it comes to repairs."

Ryan laughed. "Yeah, my mom has the same thing on her wish list."

"So, Max, is Mr. Jones teaching you how to build the treehouse?"

"Yeah."

Father McKinley's last sermon about the effects of telling lies flashed through his mind. The waves of nausea returned and danced in the pit of his stomach.

"Don't forget to return my tools after you borrow them. I don't want your mother thinking she needs to replace them with more tools." He snickered.

"I won't."

By the time Max reached the top step, he felt much better. The equipment was back where it belonged, and all was good in the world of Max Harwell.

He looked up at the ceiling and said another silent prayer, thanking God for the big favor, grateful he wouldn't have to deal with his father's fierce temper.

He gave a dramatic exhale, relieved the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders until his father's voice reverberated off the walls. He closed his eyes for a brief second.

"Max, damn it," he shouted. "You did it again, didn't..." his voice trailed off when his two-way radio squawked. He grabbed Ryan's arm, "Let's go, O'Reilly."

The two men rushed past him. "We'll discuss this later, young man," Jack Harwell said, his finger pointed in his son's face.