by A. M. Hooper
“So it is about you!” I encouraged excitedly.
“Perhaps,” he said quietly. He stood began pacing across the beach, muttering words beneath his breath. I stayed put, watching him move quickly across the sand. What was he thinking about? I looked down at the scrap of paper in my hand. 'Deny at dawn—a bitter lie—' I was no biblical expert, but even I knew Peter denied Christ. I kept reading. I wasn't sure what all of the words meant. 'Rejected, mocked: Upturned he hung.' My mind flashed back to the night at the museum. That picture—it was a picture of the apostle Peter. He was turned upside down. What was it my dad said? 'He was devoted.' I read further down the poem. 'Devotion in mortality, Amend the day thou wept for me.' Cephas’ plan—he was devoting his life to get rid of something horrible—or so he said.
“Cephas, I get the basic meaning of all of the lines, except for two.” He stopped pacing.
“Which two?”
“Mercy's eye forsakes the wall, Light bids the rock fall.”
“Oh,” he said, returning to his pacing. “Peter was in prison once—an angel came and let him out, creating a sort of bright light. It saved him.” He stopped suddenly. “It saved him,” he muttered. I read over the lines—walls, rocks fall, Mercy . . .
“Walls, Cephas!” I exclaimed. “The machine, tell me more about it.”
“Well, it's more like a computer program than a machine. It's built as a machine so that nothing else can be on it, but it's the program that's important. You could run it from any computer, really—if you could copy the software. My dad locked Dominic out of the system, and now it's just sitting there. I found my dad's copy of the plans, and it's edited from Dominic's original copy. You only see a slot for a password on the original plans, but my dad made an addition. It has this scanning type of screen, but I don't know what it's supposed to scan. The password only works when the scanning screen is activated.”
“It says Mercy's eye, Cephas. Can it scan someone's eye?”
“Yes, but whose?” he asked. A shot fired a few hundred feet away. Cephas dropped flat on the ground in a pushup position.
“Who is that?” I shouted, scrambling to lay flat on the sand.
“I don't know, it hasn't been an hour yet!” He looked over to the beach. “Okay, listen. Our boat is tied up on that dock over there.” I heard shouting; it sounded close. I looked in the direction from which it was coming.
“Emmaline, focus. Look at me, okay?” he demanded. I changed my line of vision to meet his.
“I'm going to distract them, and you run to the dock when I give you the thumbs up. Their attention will be on me, okay?” I nodded and put my head down. "They won't shoot you—I promise." His gaze sought mine before he stood. Sincerity pierced through the worry in his eyes as he tried to convince me to follow his plan. I nodded again. He pushed himself off of the sand, halting the approaching men as he pulled a gun from his pocket. He pointed it at the men and began shouting back, his voice strangely calm. I watched him nervously. What if they shot him?
“What's going on, boys? I didn't call for backup yet.”
“Yeah, well, Dominic's orders trump yours,” one man argued.
“Everything's under control, okay.” I saw his thumb extend and I took off for the dock. I didn't look back—just kept running. The deep sand proved difficult to run in, and I was nearly out of breath when I reached the dock. The wood slats bounced beneath my feet. I watched my steps, careful not to trip on the uneven wood. I jumped in the boat and untied the thick rope. The shouting grew louder and I looked up, unraveling the thick, splintery rope with more speed. Opening a seat, I lifted the vinyl cushion in search of a life jacket. I heard clattering: Cephas was running across the dock.
“Turn on the engine!” he shouted, only a few feet from the boat. I put the life jacket over my shoulders and turned the key. I grabbed the steering wheel to balance myself as the boat rocked with great force. Cephas had leaped over the stern and was shuffling over the seat that I had tossed onto the floor.
“Making yourself at home?” he asked, moving into the driver seat.
“Driving for the first time?” I retorted, thrust into the passenger seat as Cephas gunned the motor. The left corner of his mouth twitched upward and I smiled, settling back in my seat.
“Are they following us?”
“Yes. I couldn't get them to believe me.”
“What if they shoot us?”
“Well, they might kill me, but they can't kill you. Then we have no leverage for your dad.”
“We, huh?”
“You know what I mean,” he muttered.
“No, I don't, actually, Cephas.”
“That's not my name.”
“I know!” I shouted.
“Then why do you keep calling me Cephas?” he asked angrily. I didn't answer, just folded my arms. It was easy to throw away my love for Cephas—he had lied, kidnapped my dad and me, and nearly gotten me killed. But Bentley . . . I couldn’t call Cephas by his real name—then I would fall in love all over again with the first boy I had ever loved. I knelt on the seat and faced the beach. I tucked my windblown hair behind my ear, but to no avail. The violent wind from the sea blew furiously at my brown locks. I finally gave up.
“Why aren't they following us?” I asked.
“'Cause they don't have a boat,” Cephas replied. Was he mocking me? I rolled my eyes and scoffed.
“What's your problem?” he asked. I turned in my seat and my jaw dropped.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I scowled, my eyes glaring. His eyebrows raised and he smirked. I settled down in the seat and folded my arms once more, guffawing at his ignorant behavior.
“Do all women do that?” he asked, seemingly shocked.
“Do what?” I asked quietly, staring at the ocean in front of us.
“Expect men to read their minds.” He turned the steering wheel to the left and the boat leaned near to the ocean on my side. I gripped the seat, holding myself to it.
“Scared?”
“No,” I retorted. “And I don't expect you to read my mind. I expect you to realize that you're being rude when I had nothing to do with this whole mess I'm in now.” His face dropped; no smile, not even a smirk. His eyes had clouded over, but I was too upset to stop. “It's your fault I've been shot at! It's your fault I might never see my dad again! It's your fault—” I stopped and thought back over the day. “Wait,” I continued. “You've been winging it this entire time, right? How did you get a boat?” A half smile appeared on his face and the fuzz lifted slightly out of his eyes.
“What, you don't think I have a plan? Dominic just threw a wrench in my plan by taking you and your dad a day early. I had all of this planned—the mine was the only improvise.” He glanced over at me. I glared at him, so he returned his attention to the front. He looked sad despite his smart plan. Too upset about my own situation to consider his, I decided to ignore him. The boat was moving rapidly across the rough ocean. We weren't traveling very far out. We stayed within view of the beach. At first the bouncing waves were bothersome, but they soon became a soft lullaby, causing my body to relax. My eyes shut instinctively and my hair blew in swirls; the wind surrounded my folded arms, begging them to release themselves. I didn't mind, though. It was a warm wind, the kind that eases your mind and blocks out all other sound. Blocked. My dad was blocked out of the machine, and he needed to get in. My poor dad—what would they do to him?
“Did they kill your dad?” I asked suddenly. I looked over at Cephas, hoping he wouldn't say yes. Cephas kept his hands on the wheel, standing in front of the seat with one leg balancing on the chair.
“No,” he said firmly.
“How—how did he die, then?” He paused for a long time, upwards of five minutes. I sat and waited, hoping he would eventually tell me. I wanted to know what really happened. I wanted to know who Cephas really was, or Bentley, that is. So many things had been unanswered over the past two years, and I didn't think I could bear the unknown any longer.
****
The black night was all around—not a star could be seen. Only half of the moon peeked out from behind the gray, rolling clouds through the gleaming glass. I pulled the covers more tightly around my neck. Something was eerie about the wind-rustling curtains. I had that feeling—that ominous feeling that something bad was about to happen. I told myself everything was just fine: my parents lay sleeping down the hall, and I was too old to be afraid of the dark.
Shoving the covers to the side, I stepped out of bed and walked silently to the window. I pulled the window closed and peered out through the glass over the vast field that surrounded our house. Rolling hills snuck away into the black forest. My eyes darted at a sound—a sound I noticed before I even heard it. My mother was always saying I had something like a sixth sense—I could just feel when something was happening. This time I was right—something was happening. Something scuffled across the driveway below my window, and a light flickered behind the bushes.
The black night awoke as a glass lamp shattered down the hall. My mother let out a small cry. I heard a bullet whiz through the open window and hit the family portrait that hung centered on the wall above the dresser—I heard the frame crash to the ground. Squealing tires could be heard below; car doors opened and were slammed shut. Quick footsteps padded up the walkway. I dropped to the floor and crawled out into the hall.
“Mom. Dad. What’s going on?” a squeaking voice called from down the hall.
“Bentley!” my mother screamed in terror.
“I thought he was at a friend’s house!” My dad’s eyes turned black with anger. They turned to my mother, awaiting a response.
“He was . . . I . . . I don’t know . . .” she stammered. She looked up into his face, her eyes welling up, and sobs struggling to escape from her perfectly pink, trembling mouth. My dad looked away. What was happening? I had a horrible feeling I had screwed up something very important.
“Grab that boy. Let’s go.” He leaped to his feet and raced towards the bedroom door, my mother quick on his heels.
“Mom . . .” I called, trying to hide the fear evident in my voice.
“Shhhh, there’s no time,” she warned. Grabbing my right hand, she pulled me down the hall to the garage door. My dad carefully opened the door and peeked around the opening.
“Follow me. Stay close,” he instructed. The three of us jumped into the Mercedes Benz and my dad pushed the garage door opener. All silent, the car stayed off as the creaking metal and turning motor filled the night air with an eerie foreshadowing. The door came to a halt and two men peered around the edge of the opening. Automatic guns in hand, one motioned to the other to move into the garage. As he moved forward, lights lit up the garage and the motor revved like a terrible monster. The tires squealed as my father put the car in reverse, slamming on the gas. The black monster flew out of the garage, catching one man across the knees. He flew up onto the roof with a few thuds and rolled off the left side as the car veered left out of the driveway. It skidded to a stop as my dad threw it into drive and tore down the long pathway to the entrance. I clenched my fists and then released them, trying to calm down my nerves.
“Push the button, push the button!” my dad screamed as the speedometer read sixty, then seventy, then eighty. I scrambled for the remote, searching through the middle console and then under the passenger seat. I couldn’t find it.
“Bentley, now!” my dad yelled, frantically increasing speed. He looked nervously in the rearview mirror. I glanced back and saw headlights close behind. Focus, Bentley, I told myself. I finally found the remote and rose from my crouched position under the seat to push the button. The lights were getting closer, closer. I pushed the button on the remote and the gate began to open. The headlight couldn't be more than twenty feet away. The ten foot, rod iron gate inched open.
“Jim! It won’t open in time!” my mom warned as she braced herself against the seat. My dad gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes in determination as he pushed the gas petal even farther to the floor. He glanced in the rear view mirror—the lights were inches from ours.
“Jim! You won’t make it!” my mom cried in horror. My dad turned a hard left, just missing the still opening gate. The car behind him crashed into the rod iron gate at eighty miles per hour, exploding instantly. Flames encircled the car as we sped away, heading towards the forest on our property.
“Where are we going?” my mom asked, voice trembling and eyes welling up with tears.
“Just sit tight. This will all be over in a minute,” he replied. What would be over? Why were people chasing us? I was so confused. I knew I should have been more cautious, more aware of my dad’s recent change in behavior. He used to tell me everything—now he told me nothing. He had been spending less and less time at home, and my mother’s eyes had molded into pools of sadness whenever I asked her about Dad’s behavior—so I quit asking. Now we were going to die because I couldn’t risk my mother’s feelings. I scoffed at my own childish behavior. If I lived, I would never leave my mother’s or my life in someone else’s hands ever again—not even my father’s.
Headlights appeared in the rear view mirror like a pair of demon eyes, yielding no compassion and threatening all that I cared for. I searched hopelessly for a way out of his current situation. The end of the property was fast approaching. I had to think of some way to save my family, but my mind wouldn’t think!
“Now, listen,” came my father’s voice. “You two are going to hide in the hayloft, and I'll come back for you.”
“Jim, I don't think that's—”
“Ana, this is no time to argue. Just take Bentley up there and hide under the hay until you're sure I'm gone. Take the old tractor back to the house and wait for me there, okay?” My mother nodded, her lower lip quivering. I put my hand on my mother's shoulder.
“It'll be okay, Mom.” Shattering glass struck the air as a bullet penetrated the back window. The car swerved out of control.
“Bentley, sit back!” my dad yelled. He always yelled when he was anxious, lately. I had gotten used to it. I knew he didn't mean anything by it, so I squelched the pang of hurt that erupted inside of me. We used to be so close—my dad never got mad at me. But emotions were for the weak, and something more important was happening right now. Even if I was a burden to my father, I could try to be some help to my sweet mother. I shook myself out of my thoughts. A car was approaching on the right side. I sat back and kept my head low to avoid any more bullets. The barn was within a few hundred yards. If we could just reach the barn . . . Another car appeared on the left. My dad turned the car right.
“Jim, there's one on this side too!” Ana shrieked, shielding her face unnecessarily. My dad turned the wheel left in an attempt to straighten out the car, but he turned it too far. The back left end of the car lifted into the air. In slow motion, the back end of the car flipped up and rolled over the front, smashing into the roof of the pursuer's car. As they collided, both cars twisted through the dead air, flipping this way and that until they hit the ground, tumbling three times before stopping. Then the noise ended and the tumbling stopped. Engine smoke wafted through the dark night sky, a steaming tea kettle noise escaping from under the hood. A writhing pain shot up my left arm, but it didn’t matter—my mother was crying out from the passenger seat. The pain lessened as adrenaline forced my body to move. I coughed and pushed my way under the bent in roof.
“Mom!” I shouted frantically. She moaned from the front seat. “Mom! Are you okay?”
“I'm here, sweetie,” she muttered. I kicked the back door open and stumbled through the opening. Lifted myself off of the ground , I pulled at my mother's door. I held out his hand and maneuvered her out of the crushed Mercedes.
“Bentley, your arm,” she muttered. I looked down and saw blood seeping through my shirt sleeve.
“It's fine, Mom. Let's get you out,” I said in my cracking, fourteen-year-old voice. I scowled at th
e noise that pinned me as only a boy. Tires skid across gravel a few feet away. I looked up in terror. Two cars stopped in front of me and five men in black suits jumped out. One man opened the rear door and stood up straight as a tall man exited the vehicle. He walked somberly toward the wreckage.
“Run, Bentley!” my mom whispered in a hurried tone; her voice was faint, just like her breath. No way was I going to leave my mother to these horrible men. I looked up at the men.
“I wouldn't do that, son,” the tall man warned. “What of Mr. Hayes?” he called across the car.
“He didn't make it, sir,” one of the agents called from the driver's side of the Mercedes.
“No!” my mother screamed, erupting into tears. “You'll never get away with this!” she shouted at the tall man, wiping at the blood that fell across her eyebrow. Her body collapsed against the car window, though her breathing remained steady. The man turned his attention to her, a devilish grin spreading across his recently shaven face. His tailored suit was freshly pressed, the satin trim catching the shining moonlight. The grease in his black hair matched his tuxedo, as well as his freshly polished shoes.
“Kill her,” he ordered, turning back toward his car.
“No!” I shouted, not knowing what words to add. The man stopped and paused before slowly spinning on his heels. He walked sideways, peering down at my frightened face.
“Don't kill her,” I demanded, glaring up into the man's black eyes. Clenching my fists, I grit my teeth in an attempt to look intimidating; my father was dead, and my sweet mother’s life hung in the air. I hadn’t been able to stop any of this from happening. At least I could try to repair the damage.
“Why shouldn't I?” he asked, curious to hear my answer. I glanced over at my mother who had passed out from loss of blood, then made my decision.
“Boss?” a man piped up from the other side of the car, gesturing toward my mother. The tall man held up his finger, silencing the man. I stood, motionlessly awaiting my turn to speak.
“So do you have a reason, boy?” he asked.
