Free Hero by Mike Lupica

he was hot, just like that. “Maybe I don’t,” Kate said.
    She started collecting her books and pens and stood up, her way of telling him they were done here.
    “Sorry I brought it up,” he said.
    “Why?”
    “Why am I sorry?”
    Kate said, “No, why can’t you give this up, stop thinking you’re Sherlock Harriman or something?”
    It was like she was asking all the questions he couldn’t answer himself these days, about why he’d go into the park at night or why he’d pick a fight with Spence.
    Why he sometimes felt as if somebody else was at the controls of his life.
    “I just can’t,” he said.
    She turned to leave, then stopped herself.
    “When you want to tell me what’s really going on,” she said, “you can. But I can see you’re not ready to do that. And you’re not yourself right now.”
    Then she left, the girl who just had to be right not knowing how right she really was.
     
    When he came home from basketball practice the next day, he decided he wasn’t going to wait any longer. He was going to come right out with it to his mom, ask her straight up to take him out to where the plane had gone down.
    It was almost as far out as you could go on eastern Long Island, not too far from what was known as Land’s End. Past towns like Bridgehampton, East Hampton, Amagansett and Montauk. Zach had asked his dad once what comes after Montauk.
    “Portugal,” his dad had said with a grin. “After a whole lot of ocean.”
    Zach was hoping his mom would be alone when he got home. But when he came out of the elevator and around the corner to the living room, he saw that Uncle John was with her.
    Not such a bad thing, he thought.
    Because John Marshall really was like a favorite uncle, the one who pretty much always took your side or let you do whatever you wanted. Or, better yet, gets you what you want. It was like that even when Zach’s dad was alive. Whenever Zach wanted to get something from his parents—or get something out of them—he went straight to Uncle John, knowing he’d have his back.
    It was just another reason why Zach had never thought of him as their family lawyer. Or as an uncle, really. He was more like an older friend, one with serious connections, his dad’s best friend since Harvard, his roommate there, his football teammate, then his lawyer and wing-man for life.
    He had a deep voice and looked a little bit like Liam Neeson, the actor, and it was as if he’d been smiling at Zach for Zach’s whole life. Like the two of them were sharing some kind of inside joke.
    If Uncle John was over for dinner, Zach knew he could get an extra hour added on to his bedtime. If Zach wanted a new Fathead poster for his room and Uncle John found out about it, done deal. Or a quick trip to Carvel on Lexington with Kate while the grown-ups had coffee after dinner.
    “I never had children of my own to spoil,” Uncle John had said to him one time. “So I guess I’ll have to spoil you, Zachary.”
    He’d always called him that. Not Zach, like everyone else.
    Zachary.
    Zach had said, “I can take it.”
    And John Marshall had smiled and said, “Be brave, Zachary. Be brave.”
    Today Uncle John and his mom looked to be having afternoon tea. Elizabeth Harriman took one look at Zach and said, “Shower. Now.”
    “Can’t I even say hello to Uncle John?” he said. “Seriously, Mom. Where are your manners?”
    Uncle John said, “How’s the outside shot, Zachary?”
    “Getting there. Slowly. Extremely slowly.”
    “Squaring up the shoulders?”
    “When I do, my shot’s wet.”
    “Great,” his mom said. “Now you go get wet. In the shower.”
    “Need to ask you something before I do.”
    “Make it fast,” she said. “I love you more than life itself, but even from over here you smell like feet.”
    They were on the couch. Zach took a seat across from them, on the other side of an antique coffee table. John Marshall, as always, was in a dark suit and white shirt and striped tie. Black