Misplaced Trilogy

by Brian Bennett

  Trey straightened in his seat. "They've confessed?"

  "Nooo . . . only to me. They're telling some elaborate story about helping bring teenage runaways back to their parents."

  Nearly everyone groaned in disbelief.

  "No one's buying it though," said Gunther. "But honestly, it's as believable as the truth."

  "So," asked Trey, "how exactly did those guys find you in the first place?"

  "I found them, actually. For years I've been watching the internet for strange things to show up, and the postings from Charlie and Delta definitely fit the bill. When I contacted them, I knew they'd captured someone like me." He smiled at Trey and Livy. "I had no idea I'd find two."

  Trey focused on the mysterious newcomer. "You still haven't told me your real name. What's your story?"

  Gunther seemed a little stunned. "Well . . . I guess first things first. My real name is Mark Robinson. I can't say for sure how old I am, but I'd say roughly your age."

  He looked to Livy. "My story's closer to yours. I've been in and out of foster homes as long as I can remember. I don't even know my real parents."

  "How long have you known?" she asked.

  "Known what?"

  "That you were different."

  "Oh . . . not long, a couple years."

  "Did someone find you?"

  "Uh, yeah, my Dad,"

  Trey wasn't convinced, but let it slide. "Did he give you a transmitter?"

  "No, no, but he told me about them. That's why we need to get the other one back. It's very important."

  "Why's that?" Trey asked.

  "Because it's gonna help us find Olivia's father."

  * * *

  After leaving Zach's lavish home, Trey sped his small pickup through town with the teen now known as Mark sitting quietly beside him. He revved the engine impatiently at yet another red light, eager to deliver Mr. Jones back to Longwood High School.

  His teenage passenger broke the awkward silence. "I should be back here in a couple days with the transmitter. I'll know more then about Carl and Dale's arraignments. Once we have both transmitters, I'll explain exactly how we're going to use them."

  Trey nodded, looking straight ahead as the light finally turned to green.

  Mark watched Trey's stony reaction closely. After a while, he added, "I'm not interested in stealing your girl, you know."

  Trey laughed under his breath. "I don't have a girl. And if I did, I wouldn't be worried." He looked over at Mark. "Where'd that come from anyway?"

  "I can tell you don't trust me. And I'm not sure why."

  Trey didn't react.

  "I can also tell that you're sweet on Olivia."

  Trey chuckled. "Sweet?"

  Mark shrugged and looked out the side window. "Do you want my advice?"

  "No. But I bet you give it anyway."

  The older, wiser looking Mr. Jones turned to him seriously. "Don't get attached."

  Trey huffed, unsure how else to respond.

  Mr. Jones pointed ahead. "That's my car."

  Trey pulled up alongside the beat-up Ford Taurus and stopped in the middle of the street.

  "Are you sure that old heap will get you to Oak Valley and back?"

  Gunther stepped out of the truck and turned to face Trey. "Don't let appearances fool you. It's trustworthy and dependable."

  The door closed, and Trey muttered to himself. "Yeah, so is Ozzy, but he also sniffs butts."

  He tromped the gas pedal and raced away, leaving Mr. Jones standing at his car in a puff of exhaust.

  Papers

  TREY CRUISED HIS small pickup through Longwood on his way to Amy’s after dropping of Mr. Jones at the high school. Sheriff Smead's cruiser sat partially concealed behind a portable restaurant sign. The plastic letters spelled out Chef Joe's tasteless humor for the week: Why Fry? Hot Spot.

  Trey glanced down at his speedometer and maintained a steady speed, just over the limit. Mockingly, he saluted the lawman in passing, and Smead lifted a few fingers off the wheel in return.

  Moments later, the black-and-gold cruiser eased out onto the street behind him. Trey tilted his head to get a better angle in the rearview, and thankfully, the lights on the patrol car weren't flashing. All across the small town the sheriff kept a close tail, and when Trey turned his truck onto Route 868, Smead trailed after him.

  On up the straight blacktop road, Livy's bright-green Toyota was already parked in Amy's weed-ridden driveway. Trey had hoped to stop and get their take on Mark Robinson, but he didn't like the idea of drawing Smead's attention to Amy's new roommate.

  As he eventually approached his own home with the matching willow trees, he silently pleaded for Smead to continue on out 868, maybe to the Taylor farm, but when Trey steered into the gravel path, Smead followed in behind him.

  Trey shut off his truck alongside the old carriage house and got out to greet his uninvited guest. He ambled across the driveway and met the sheriff face-to-face at the start of the sidewalk.

  "Sheriff."

  "Trey, good to see ya."

  Smead held up a handful of papers. "I have some copies for your folks. Thought I'd save some postage."

  Trey nodded, deciding it would be rude to point out the high price of gasoline.

  "Since you're here, I've wanted to ask you something, Trey." The husky man cocked his head. "How's that gunshot healing?"

  Trey looked down at his shoulder without thinking. Dammit!

  The sheriff smiled innocently and started up the sidewalk, leaving Trey in a stupefied daze.

  Smead held up the handful of papers as he walked. "Both blood spots were male, Trey."

  Avoiding the sticky situation, Trey shuffled to the carriage house and slid open the bulky doors. He walked back to his truck and paused to look toward the house. Smead and his mother were talking pleasantly inside the kitchen.

  He hopped into the cab and searched the floor and seats for signs of blood removal. If Zach had cleaned up a mess, he did a thorough job. He turned and eyed the likewise spotless bed-liner.

  After backing his truck into the parking stall, he closed himself inside the dark, oil scented garage. From the small side window, he watched the house until Smead finally lumbered out the back door onto the concrete stoop. Trey ducked away from the window and waited in the shadows until he heard the cruiser back out the driveway and race away.

  Trey left the old building and found his mother standing in the kitchen doorway waiting for him. The distress in her eyes was more and more apparent the closer he came to the house.

  "What did he want?"

  She stepped aside to let him past, closing the door behind them. "He wanted our permission to do a blood test. Since you're under eighteen, we can refuse."

  Trey lifted his brow in anticipation.

  "I said no, of course. I think you've been through enough."

  Trey sighed with relief.

  "I'm afraid he wouldn't let it go that easily though"

  Trey looked into his mother's guilty eyes. "What?"

  "I told him."

  Trey's heart skipped two beats. "Told him what?"

  "Not that," she reassured. "I made something up. Oh, I hate lying to Emmet."

  Trey eased down onto a stool. "What did you say?"

  She took a stool opposite him. "I told him that when Zach showed up here with you so badly injured, I didn't know what to believe. So when he called looking for you, I covered and told him you weren't home because I thought you'd actually shot Billy."

  She leaned toward him. "It wasn't true, of course. I never doubted you or Zach."

  Trey nodded in understanding. "Did he believe you?"

  She shook her head. "Not at first. But after his threats of obstructing justice didn't deter me, he seemed satisfied."

  Trey's eyes bulged. "Obstructing justice? Are you in big trouble?"

  "Noo," she said with a smile. "Emmet knows we've been through enough. He'll drop it."

  Trey rose from his stool and gave her a gia
nt hug. "Thanks, Mom."

  * * *

  Days later, Trey was stretched out across his mother's good sofa, quietly programming contacts into his new smartphone.

  A soft door-knock broke his concentration.

  His father looked up curiously from his reading chair; nobody used the front door.

  Trey shrugged and went back to keying in a phone number.

  His dad creaked up out of his chair and stiffly walked to the door. He paused, peering through the sheer curtains. "I think it's for you."

  Trey's feet slid to the floor, and he sat at attention. As the door opened, Livy's petite figure came into view on the porch.

  "Olivia," his dad enthusiastically announced.

  "Is Trey--" Her eyes met Trey's through the opening.

  "Come in, come in."

  Trey stood to greet his unexpected visitor and straightened the waistline of his blue jeans.

  Mr. Collins pushed the door closed behind her. "I'll take my book to the study."

  Trey made small-talk while his father retreated. "I got my new phone."

  Livy smiled. "Mine's in the mail."

  Once the two were alone, he took a seat on the sofa, leaving plenty of room for Livy. "What's up?"

  He smiled inwardly as she settled down beside him, closer than he expected.

  "It's Gunther, or Mark, or whoever the heck he is."

  Trey's enthusiasm faded. "What about him?"

  She pulled a square of folded papers out of her pocket. "He's not who he says he is."

  "I'm not surprised," said Trey, accepting the offered papers.

  As he unfolded the crinkled pages, Mark Robinson's face appeared within a printed news article.

  Trey skimmed through the text. "It says he disappeared a couple years ago. I don't get it. That jives with his story."

  "Next article."

  He shuffled to the second paper and skimmed through the headlines. Livy helped out by pointing to one short paragraph.

  Before he finished reading, she summarized. "They found him just a few months ago. They positively identified his remains, Trey."

  "So, Mark is zombie?" he chided.

  "No! I think this Gunther guy stole his identity."

  Trey looked suspicious. "I sure don't trust him, but why hassle with all that?"

  "There's more."

  Trey raised his brow. "Of course. Let's hear it, Nancy Drew."

  Livy rolled her baby-blue eyes. "I wondered about his progress on retrieving the transmitter, so I'd been checking in remotely every so often. All along, it's been right there on the shelf. But today, I saw him come in the storage room to get it. He's not our age."

  "How do you know?"

  "Trust me, I could tell. He's an old man."

  "Did you talk to him?"

  "No, I freaked and popped out of there before he could sense I was viewing."

  Trey shook his head. "I knew he was lying. I just don't get why."

  "You wanna know something else? After I had calmed down, I decided I should just pop in and ask him what was going on. But I couldn't. It seems like the transmitter is broken or blocked."

  Trey looked around the room, wondering if they were being watched. "Where's your transmitter?"

  "I worried about the same thing. I didn't bring it. I'm staying away from it in case he's spying on us."

  Trey closed his eyes. "We'd be able to feel the vibrations, right?"

  She shrugged. "I think so."

  Trey leaned back in the couch, rubbing his forehead. "Maybe we should just stay away from him."

  She slowly shook her head. "But if he knows how to find my father?"

  Trey was struck by a thought. "If that really was your father."

  She glared at him. "Don't say that."

  Trey cringed at his own insensitivity. "Sorry."

  His mother bounded into the room, stopping suddenly. "Oh, Livy." She smiled brightly. "I'm getting ready to make supper. Will you be joining us?"

  Trey watched Livy in hopeful anticipation.

  "Thank you, Mrs. C, but I better head home; Amy will be wondering."

  Nightmare

  A MUFFLED THUMP woke Trey from a light sleep. He sat up in bed and gazed around his dark, empty bedroom. It was nothing.

  Slowly, he reclined into his pillow, still uneasy about the unknown disturbance.

  Moments later, masculine voices carried softly through his door from just on the other side. He sprang up in bed and strained to make them out.

  The doorknob slowly twisted. His bedroom door gradually creaked open to the dark hallway beyond.

  Out of the shadows stepped the ugly face of Carl Davis.

  Trey scurried backward to the head of his bed. "G-Gunther? Mark?"

  Carl smirked and waved his cold, dark pistol as he stepped aside to make way for Mr. Jones to follow in behind him.

  "I'm dreaming," muttered Trey.

  Donning a corduroy jacket and a middle-aged face, Gunther grinned. "A nightmare for sure, but I'm afraid you're perfectly awake."

  Trey tried desperately to change the scene of the horror-show playing out in front of him.

  Gunther laughed. "Sorry. You can't get rid of us that easy."

  Carl aimed his weapon toward Trey's chest, but Gunther pushed it aside.

  "Now, now," Gunther said, "If everyone cooperates, there won't be a need for fuss."

  "What's going on?" asked Trey.

  "Put some pants on, and I'll explain downstairs."

  Trey slid on the jeans that were strung over a nearby chair. As he buttoned the waist, Gunther pointed to the socks and sneakers on the floor. "You might want those, too."

  Before long, Trey was prodded down the long wooden stairway. As he descended, the soft lamplight in the living room gradually revealed a room full of people. The closer he came to the bottom step, the more terrifying the situation unfolded.

  Sitting side-by-side on the sofa were both of his parents in loose pajamas, each bound at their hands and feet.

  Dale stood at guard, positioned between the front door and the entryway to the kitchen.

  Livy sat forward on the edge of a side chair in jeans and a light hoodie. Her feet were bound, and her hands were pulled behind her back. Duct tape was stretched tightly across her lips.

  She looked up at Trey with frightened eyes. A pink blotch on the side of her face showed the early signs of bruising.

  Carl forced Trey through the living room from behind, and Trey glanced up at Dale in passing. Three bright-red scratches striped the side of the scruffy man's face and neck.

  Carl grabbed Trey's wrists and roughly pulled back his arms. The all-too-familiar feel of ropes drew his hands tightly together behind him. The foul smelling thug shoved Trey into a chair and roped him at the ankles.

  Trey's cursing eyes followed Gunther to the center of the living room. Mr. Jones slowly clapped his palms in faux applause. "Well done, boys," he said, looking to his accomplices. "Now it's time for my end of the bargain."

  Carl and Dale smirked, eyeing each other proudly.

  Gunther delved into his pocket and pulled out a thin mobile-device. His fingers worked the display while Carl and Dale fidgeted impatiently in their shoes.

  Gunther smiled. "That ought to do it."

  He raised the smartphone and pointed it toward Carl. A micro instant later, a lightning bolt of thick, white electricity shot from the phone into Carl's chest. The brawny man went stiff and toppled like an oak tree, rattling the shelves when he slammed the floor.

  Dale watched his partner fall with a stupefied expression. He turned to Gunther in horror, just in time to receive a similar jolt of mega energy.

  Carl and Dale lay motionless, side-by-side on the hardwood floor. Small puffs of steam snaked up from their lifeless bodies.

  The weapon in Gunther's hand briefly revealed its true, unrecognizable form before he tucked it away inside his pocket.

  Trey's mother spoke what everyone seemed to be thinking. "Are they . . . dead?"


  "Uh . . . yeah," said Gunther, heartlessly. "So much cleaner than bullets, don't you think?" He eyed the two men on the floor, sizing up which door was closest.

  "Who the hell are you?" demanded Trey.

  Gunther turned to him in response. "I'm nobody. I'm just the guy that has to clean up other people's messes."

  He bent down and started dragging Carl toward the kitchen by the suit cuffs.

  When Gunther disappeared out the back door with Carl, Trey kicked and tugged at his bindings, and everyone else in the room did the same.

  "Urr," Trey grunted in frustration. Carl and Dale may have been stupid, but they knew how to tie a person up properly.

  "What do you think he's going to do with us?" Trey's mother asked.

  Livy murmured something inaudible through her duct tape.

  Trey's dad calmly reassured everyone. "If he was going to kill us, he would have done it already."

  Gunther showed up again, and everyone froze, watching with dread while he drug Dale outside as well.

  Trey's parents worked their backs toward each other and fumbled to undo the other's ropes.

  "Oh, I think that one loosened a little," his mother said.

  Their captor re-entered the house, and the couple snapped back into their earlier positions.

  Gunther walked straight through the living room on a direct line to Livy.

  "We won't need this now," he said, ripping the tape from her lips. "Sorry."

  He groped his fingers at her narrow hips. "Sorry again."

  "Get your hands off me, you perv."

  Trey darted to his feet and hopped toward the tussle.

  "Don't flatter yourself, girly," Gunther said, finally pulling the stone transmitter out of her pants pocket.

  Trey teetered helplessly, several feet away from his chair.

  Gunther turned to him and grinned. "I knew you were sweet on her."

  "I knew you sniffed butts."

  Everyone stared at Trey, confused by his comment.

  Gunther dismissively shook away the nonsense. "Hop back into your seat before you fall over."

  Trey froze, staring into Gunther's artificial eyes. "What about the real Mr. Jones, did you kill him, too?"

  "Of course not," Gunther said, fighting back a laugh. "Now, sit down."