by Aaron Grunn
wouldn't say a thing."
"You sure you checked all over the school?"
"Yeah, the principal and his teachers said he left the school as soon as the day was over."
"No sport teams, nothing?"
"Doesn't play them."
"What about something like the debate club?"
"Nope. Nothing at all."
"You got his file, I hope."
"I got it. His picture too."
"Let me see it."
"Doesn't look much like his old man, does he?"
"No. But get this. I was asking some of the students walking by and this one kid, football jock, seemed interested. I told him we were the feds, looking for the kid. He took me aside and told me that the boy wasted him and a few of his friends."
A gravelly laugh. "So he is his old man's son, eh?"
"That's right."
"His mother was lying."
"Exactly."
"Alphabet isn't going to like that."
"Yeah, she's in for a tough night."
"You have that football player's name?"
"Smitty."
"Address?"
"Right here."
"Let's go ask him some more questions. Maybe he knows where the boy is right now."
"Let's."
One of the pair of feet walked to the other side of John and both stepped into the car John was under. Crap, John thought, how was he going to get out from under here? The engine started up. He was about to roll out when the car started to move. The headlights were in front, the car was backing out, so if he stayed where he was he would be seen. He grabbed a piece of the undercarriage and lifted himself up by the fingertips.
The car backed out and stopped. John released and watched the car move from on top of him. He rolled back into the open parking place when he saw the red stoplights come on. He made a note of the license plate number when the distinct whine of a car backing up scared him and he got up, making sure to stay low, and scurried back to the ditch. He peered through the grass and looked back. The two men were looking under the cars with their flashlights.
"You saw something?"
"Yeah, it was moving fast."
"You certain?"
"No. But best to check, right?"
"Come on, this is a waste of time. Lets find the other kid."
John watched as they looked around the parking lot then drove off. He waited until the car was out of sight before he came out of the grass. There was one light still on in the parking lot. He picked up a pebble and threw it at the light with all his might. The light went out and glass tinkled on the pavement.
John walked to his door and pressed his ear against it. All quiet. He twisted the door and it opened. Inside, one light was on in the kitchen. The TV lay face down on the ground, books were ripped and strewn all over the floor, and furniture was broken.
John ran his hand over a broken chair, and his hand touched something wet. He looked closer. Blood. He stared at the broken chairleg. It was sharp and had been used to slice into someone, though only the tip. He traced his finger over the edge. His mother. A pit formed in his heart, stomach, and he felt dizzy.
This emotion caused him to react slowly to the man he saw in the corner of his eye, tearing out at him, with a gun in hand. The man slammed the handgrip of the pistol into John's head, and John felt searing pain interrupt his thoughts as he went flying to his knees. The man pointed the gun at John, standing over him.
John didn't care. In one swift movement, he took the piece of furniture, the end of a chair leg, he was holding and pushed it through the man's chest. The man stared at him for a second, as if nothing could affect him. Then he looked down at the chair leg and started to convulse.
John threw the man down and grabbed the gun. The man's spasms and moans started to make John feel sick to his stomach. He looked away. Had he really just killed the man?
John knew he had to get out.
He remembered the photo and ran to the bedroom and looked for the box. He kicked something. Looking down, he saw the box, open, empty. There was no time; he had to leave. He went back to the living room. The man was still, one of his hands loosely gripping the chair leg. An awful smell hit John's nose and he gagged. He realized it was coming from the man. John ran out and back into the ditch. His hands were red with blood and he washed them in the running water.
Then he ran. As far as he could. Out of town, into the farm fields and finally came to rest in a forest of trees. Above the moon highlighted a cloud. He was hungry, but he didn't know what to do. There wasn't anywhere he could turn, was there? He thought of his mother, the blood on the chair leg. Then he remembered the man, the chair. John couldn't stay anywhere near this place.
The GPS tracker Tom gave him.
He fumbled through his pockets. His heart stopped, and he wanted to cry. It wasn't in his pockets. When was the last time he'd even thought about it? It could have slipped out in school; it could have slipped out in Jessica's house. He patted his pants down and pulled out the pockets. Nothing.
His head spinning, he fell down to the ground. Now what was he going to do? He would have to retrace his steps. There was no way he could do that. Maybe it was in Jessica's room. He had taken off his pants there. But those men were going to talk to Smitty, and Smitty would tell them about seeing him with Jessica, then where would he be?
Jessica. That moment on her bed... he tried to remember it; if only to shift what he was feeling from the murder away from his brain. It didn't work. He looked up to the sky cut up by the branches of the tree. It was getting cold fast, and John didn't have anything but his sweater on. He should have grabbed some food, clothes. He should have been smarter about this. But how could he have stayed a moment longer in a room with a dead man? It wasn't his fault. In the end, his mother and uncle should have better prepared him.
An anger arose in his chest, and he embraced it since it felt better than the despair that had just shook him. Damn them. Why weren't they smarter than him, and why did they have to drag him in? Of course, he thought, it doesn't matter how angry you get at them, you will still be in this situation. You will be cold and hungry and without a way to fend for yourself. He didn't even have cash.
A cloud moved and revealed a side of the sky that was splashed with blurred-white. It was beautiful and reminded John how small the planet was, and how everything on this planet would lie dormant, dead, sooner or later. He'd read that somewhere, and during the worst days of school he tried to remember that when he was being picked on. It'd never worked then. For some reason, it worked now.
He turned his attention to the ground and picked up some dead leaves from the previous fall; they were almost dust now. The cycle here would continue. The man had said that his mother was lying and that she was in for a tough night. Were those the words he used? Whatever he'd said, John could tell from his voice that it wasn't going to be good. His heart seized up, and he felt melancholy drift through his body.
Why me? This was so unfair. And just when he was sure he was the luckiest man in the whole world—when Jessica, a girl he'd dreamt about since he saw her, had blessed him—he had to be brought crashing back to the reality that was life. Again he tried to will the world to change, and nothing happened. Anger bubbled up and this time, his hand still sifting through the dirt and leaves, he focused his anger on what was in front of him.
The leaves moved. Or was it the wind doing that? No, he thought, it was definitely the leaves moving on their own. He stretched his fingers and tried it again. Nothing. It must have been his imagination.
It's the anger.
He thought about the man and what he'd said about John's mother. He thought about Smitty trying to embarrass him in front of Jessica, and he pointed at the leaves again. They moved. John kept thinking and straining himself to be angry and the leaves moved up in the air and above his face. John couldn't believe it. He reached out to touch the leaves, and they fell. He'd actually done that! More than anything he before, this was impressive.
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He got up and looked for a rock. He saw one the size of his head. He tried to think of something to infuriate himself. Nothing happened. He tried to think about how he had been attacked by Smitty, and still nothing happened. After a few minutes he gave up. Besides, what use was it to levitate a fistful of dirt?
He walked back to where he'd been lying when he remembered his backpack. He had had it with him the entire time. He unzipped it. Inside was a granola bar, and he devoured it. He picked through his books and calculator, and his hand touched the black box. Ecstatic, he pulled it out and studied it. When Tom had explained how to work it, he hadn't been paying attention. He tried to slide it open, but it wouldn't budge. He didn't want to slam it for fear of breaking it.
Could it be that this close to being able to find his uncle, he would fail? A click sounded, and John looked down. It was open. He pressed the button. Then pressed it again. Wasn't there supposed to be some light? Why had he been so concerned with leaving his uncle when he was explaining how to work this thing? After pressing it several times and not finding any lights going off, John leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
The sound of men speaking woke John up. It was dawn. John spat out a mouth full of dirt. When the sound of the men got louder, he startled up and looked around. He couldn't make out anything but trees, and he couldn't make out how many men there were. He grabbed his backpack. The black box was still in his hand. He looked at it. There was no way to know if it had worked. He threw it in is pocket. Better
