Payback

by Melody Carlson

  “Maybe it’s Steven’s blood,” I say hopefully. “Maybe Mom got the gun from him, shot him, and drove off.”

  Ebony nods, but I can tell by her eyes she believes this is hopeful thinking on my part. “Maybe…Time will tell.”

  And so my long night continues. I tell Ebony there’s no way I’ll be able to go to sleep until I know Mom’s okay. She understands.

  By ten o’clock my hopes are dwindling fast. “Go ahead and go to bed,” I tell Ebony. “I know you have to work tomorrow.”

  She simply shakes her head. “Not a chance. I am not going to bed until we hear something.”

  “Do you think that no news is bad news?”

  “I’m not sure what to think.”

  Just then the phone rings, and my heart jolts. I stand by Ebony as she answers it. My pulse is pounding in my ears, and I am so afraid that I can barely breathe. It’s like someone has wrapped ice-cold hands around my neck and is squeezing tightly.

  “Samantha,” says Ebony with brightly shining eyes as she hands me the phone, “it’s your mother!”

  I feel slightly faint as I reach for the phone. “Mom?” I cry. “Is it really you?”

  “Yes, Samantha, it’s me.” Her voice sounds hoarse and very tired.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I am now, sweetie. I am now.”

  Tears stream down my cheeks again. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Mom. I’ve been so freaked. I’ve been praying and praying.”

  “And I heard…you’re the reason they found me.”

  “They told you that?”

  “Not all the details, just something about a girl in Oregon, a girl who had a dream. They don’t even know you’re my daughter.”

  “I love you, Mom! I don’t know what I’d do without you. Are you really okay?”

  “I am.”

  “Did Steven shoot you?”

  “Yes, but fortunately, he’s not a very good shot.”

  “So you’re really okay?”

  “I am. Right now they’re transporting me to a hospital to check me out…but don’t worry. I’m in good hands.”

  “When will you come home?”

  “Probably tomorrow. Right now I just need a good night’s sleep.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “I told Zach. He’s pretty freaked too.”

  “I’ll call him from the hospital.”

  “Good.”

  “And I’ll call you in the morning, Samantha. Are you at Olivia’s?”

  “No, I’m with Ebony”

  “Good. Thank her for me.”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “I love you, Samantha.”

  “I love you too, Mom.” Then we hang up, and I’m still crying. I throw my arms around Ebony and hug her tightly. “She’s okay. She said Steven was a bad shot. She’s just tired. She’ll be home tomorrow.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Ebony says when I finally let her go.

  “And she said to thank you.”

  Ebony nods. “That’s nice.”

  “I need to call Zach and Olivia,” I say suddenly.

  “I think I’ll go to bed,” she says.

  “Me too,” I say, “as soon as I tell them the good news.”

  After I finish my phone calls, I get down on my knees and thank God. I know He’s the only reason Mom is safe tonight. He gave me the dream. And He helped the searchers locate her. Without God, my mom would probably still be out there. I wonder if she knows that.

  ———

  I wake to the sound of a phone ringing. But then I hear Ebony’s voice, and I realize once again where I am. And why. And I remember that Mom is okay now. And she’ll be coming home today. I quickly shower and dress, and when I find Ebony, she is grinning.

  “Good news!”

  “Yeah?”

  “They picked up Steven, a.k.a. Greg Hampton, just outside of Chihuahua, Mexico, early this morning. He still had your mom’s car, but it had broken down outside the city limits, and a policeman came along and ran the plates and discovered it was stolen. He’s being held in the Chihuahua city jail until the FBI arrives. After that he’ll be extradited to the States.”

  “Cool.”

  “Very cool.” Ebony takes out a carton of eggs. “I don’t know about you, but I think this calls for a real breakfast. You game for my famous cheese omelet?”

  “Sounds fantastic. I’m starved.”

  “You’ve had a rough weekend, Samantha. Do you feel up to going to school this morning? I could probably write you an excuse.”

  “That’s okay” I situate myself on a barstool at her breakfast counter and watch as she cracks eggs into a bowl. “I’m looking forward to going to school.”

  “Back to a normal routine?”

  “Yeah. I know it sounds crazy, but it seems like a long time since I’ve seen my friends.” Then I tell her about Conrad’s little sister and his trip to Seattle. “I’m eager to hear how that went too.”

  “Lots going on in your life.” She pours the eggs into a hot buttered pan, and I listen to them sizzle. “I hope it’s not too much for you. And we have that prom situation to solve next weekend. Are you still good to go with that?”

  “You bet. I’m so glad Mom’s okay that I feel totally energized this morning.” I let out a happy sigh. “And next weekend sounds like a long way off.”

  “It’ll come quickly,” she warns me as she grates cheese onto the eggs.

  “I hope this will be it,” I say. “Not that I want anyone at Fairmont to get hurt. I just want us to catch the creeps—to put an end to it.” I suddenly remember my dream again, the students who’d been shot…dying on the white marble floor. “I don’t see why a terrorist has an interest in doing something like that at a prom.”

  “I’ve given that a fair amount of thought myself. I’ve come up with a theory of sorts.”

  “What?” I listen closely now.

  “Well, it’s not that different from the original threat. Remember, I read you parts of it?”

  “Yes. But it mostly sounded crazy and mean. Kind of senseless and extreme, really.”

  “I was trying to understand an extremist point of view. A prom might represent all the things about American culture that are abhorred by jihadi or Islamic terrorists. Think about it — things like materialism, immodesty, immorality. That’s not to say all kids who go to proms are like that, but it could be a wrong perception someone has put together out of ignorance.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “So perhaps they decided that a prom is a good place to hit us. It’s so unexpected. And proms have never been known for having high security. Not like a ball game or other kinds of community events where police and security guards are abundant. Also, the idea of killing innocent young people, well, that’s a real attention getter. It would make world news within the hour. And that’s just what they want.”

  “That’s so creepy.”

  She nods. “I’m just glad you’re on top of it.”

  “I don’t feel very on top of it,” I admit. “But I hope God is.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  Still, I wonder as I drive to Olivia’s house to pick her up for school. After attending two proms that fizzled, I feel a little unsure of myself. And yet I saw God do an amazing miracle just yesterday—using my dream to rescue my mom. Really, how can I doubt?

  Thirteen

  That is so incredible,” Olivia says after I’ve filled her in on some of the details from last night’s phone conversation with my mom. “Did your mom say where she’d been shot?”

  “No. Just that it wasn’t serious. I can’t wait to hear the whole story.”

  “Does your mom know that Steven’s behind bars?”

  “I’m guessing she does, but I haven’t talked to her yet today. She’s supposed to call me when she knows which flight she’ll be on.”

  “You must be excited to see her.”

  Totally.” I shake my head now. “I
think I kind of took her for granted…or worse. Now I realize how much I love her. And I’m not even going to push her to come to church or to be a Christian or anything. I decided that I just need to love her unconditionally. No pressure.”

  “I guess we should do that to everyone, huh?”

  “Yeah. But sometimes it’s hard.” I’m thinking about Steven (or Greg) now. I don’t know if I could possibly love that jerk. Still, I know that God could do it through me. Mostly I just want to work my way through to forgiving him—with God’s help, of course. And then I’d like to forget him.

  When we get to school, my friends all want to know about my mom. Thanks to the church’s prayer chain—and the school’s gossip chain—everyone seems to know something about it. After a while I get tired of repeating the story or straightening out the mixed-up details. “No, my mom wasn’t kidnapped and transported to Mexico to become a sex slave.”

  By lunchtime I try to redirect the conversation at our table by asking Conrad about Katie. He’s already told me a little, but it was so overshadowed by my story that I feel I’ve missed out.

  “They won’t know whether the medicine is working for at least a week,” Conrad tells everyone. “But she was in good spirits.”

  “She was sure glad to see us,” Alex says.

  “And sad to see us go,” adds Conrad.

  Just then my phone rings, and when I realize it’s Mom, I leave the table to talk to her.

  “I’m on my way to the Albuquerque airport,” she tells me. “My flight connects through Salt Lake, and I should arrive in Portland at 7:40.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

  “Yes. I’m fine, Samantha. I got a good night’s sleep, and the hospital staff was very good to me.”

  “And your gunshot wound?” I ask quietly, not eager for anyone to overhear me since this isn’t something I’ve made public knowledge with anyone but my closest friends.

  “It’s really just a flesh wound. He clipped me on the left shoulder. It’s sore and bruised but not too serious.”

  “Did you get your purse and phone back?”

  “Not yet. But the FBI people have been extremely helpful. They got me some photo ID so I can board the flight and even helped me with the tickets. I didn’t want to wait for my purse and things to be returned, assuming that will even happen. I’m just eager to get home.”

  “I’ll pick you up at the airport,” I promise. “I guess you won’t have any bags. How about if I meet you in front?”

  “That sounds perfect, Samantha.”

  “Be safe.”

  “You too.”

  After school I drive to the police station. I’m curious as to whether Ebony has any news, and I want to let her know that Mom is on her way home. I park my car on a side street about a block from the precinct, and I’m just getting out and locking the door when I’m hit with a flash of light. I put my hand on the roof of my car and just close my eyes, bracing myself for whatever God is about to show me.

  I can see Brandon, and it’s clear that he’s really scared — almost as if he’s in fear for his life. He’s running through an open area, like between two buildings, and several guys are chasing him, yelling threats, saying they’re going to kill him. He ducks into a doorway and runs down a hallway and finally ends up in what sort of looks like a locker room, although I don’t see any lockers. He jumps into one of those big carts that are for used towels, and for a moment I think he might’ve escaped the bullies. But they notice the cart move slightly, and they rip back the towels and haul him out. No one else is around to see as they take turns holding him and beating him so badly that his glasses are smashed, and it, looks like his nose is broken, and he is bleeding…and sobbing. He begs them for mercy, but they just make fun of him for crying like a baby And they drop him to the floor, kicking him a few more times before they take off. Brandon lies motionless in a heap on the floor. It’s as if he’s dead.

  I open my eyes and am shaking with fury. Why are those guys acting like that? How can they be so cruel, so hateful, so vicious and mean? And how are they getting away with it? From what I could see, this criminal act occurred on school grounds. Although the locker room seemed empty…Perhaps it was after school hours. Still, doesn’t Fairmont High bear some of the responsibility for these criminal actions? Shouldn’t they be held accountable if one of their students is being bullied like this?

  Feeling righteously indignant for Brandon’s sake, I march into the precinct and seek out Ebony

  “Something wrong?” she asks when I blast into her office.

  “Brandon,” I say simply. “I just had a vision where he was viciously beaten again, nearly to death.”

  She nods with a frown. “Any idea about when, where, how?”

  “Well, it seemed to take place in a locker room. Now if he really goes to Fairmont, like he told me, shouldn’t the school protect him?”

  “Yes. Good point. Let’s do a little research, get our facts straight, and then I’ll give them a call. For starters, I want you to verify that Brandon is a student there. Get his full name for me, and I’ll try to find out if he’s reported any violence.”

  So I spend the afternoon perusing the Fairmont High annual. But I don’t see anyone who resembles Brandon. And the kids I find who are named Brandon are not him. I also look for guys named Allen since that was a name I’d heard in a vision before, But there’s only one Allen, and he doesn’t look anything like the kid I met in the arcade last weekend. Then I decide to look through some of the other high school annuals. We have quite a stack. And in my third one—the same yearbook I looked through last week for the McKinley prom — I find a kid named Brandon Allen, who looks just like my Brandon. According to the yearbook, which is for last year, Brandon was a sophomore there. So he’d be a junior now. I wonder why he told me he went to Fairmont if he really goes to McKinley.

  I take the yearbook to Ebony, who’s on the phone having what sounds like a serious conversation. Not wanting to disturb her, I stick a Post-it by the photo, make an arrow pointing at him, and write “this is the kid.” Then I leave Ebony to her phone call.

  After that, I go through the Fairmont yearbook again, more carefully this time, hoping to find the girl in the pale green dress. But the truth is, so much has happened since I had the dream that her face has gotten pretty blurry in my memory. Still, I put Post-its next to photos of several girls who seem like possibilities. I definitely think the Fairmont students have more of that rich-kid image that I remember from my dream. I also make note of the girls’ names, thinking I will look them up when I stop by their school at the end of the week.

  By the time I’m ready to leave the precinct, I feel I’ve made real progress. I also feel seriously tired.

  “I checked with McKinley High,” Ebony tells me when I stop by her office to say good-bye. “Brandon Allen was a student there last year. But he transferred out last spring.”

  “Did they say where?”

  She nods. “Fairmont.”

  “So he wasn’t lying. Did they say why he transferred?”

  “They weren’t exactly forthcoming, but when I pushed, they did suggest he’d had some social difficulties.”

  “That’s a strange way to describe bullying.”

  “I don’t think any administrators want to admit that their school has bullying going on. Although I did offer to send them some information for creating an antibullying policy, and they actually seemed interested.”

  “That’s something.”

  “The counselor did say that Brandon is an underachieves”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “She said he has a genius IQ but performs poorly in class.”

  “I’d do poorly in class too,” I say, “if I spent half my time running for my life.”

  “Yes, I suggested as much. But according to her, he never lodged a complaint against the bullies.”

  “You can’t really blame him for that. What happens when the bullies find out that y
ou tattled? They turn up the heat.”

  “Yes. It’s a gnarly problem.”

  “So what should I do next?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s too late for me to reach anyone at Fairmont, but I plan to find out what’s going on there. I’ll also check out his home situation and try to make sure he’s not at serious risk. Having his full name makes this all much easier, Samantha. Good work on finding it.”

  “I might be getting warmer with the prom girl too,” I say. “I found some possibilities, and I’m looking forward to going to Fairmont on Friday.”

  “Do you have any inclinations,” Ebony begins carefully, “as to whether or not Brandon might be connected to your visions about the prom?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that sometimes victims can retaliate.” Ebony looks evenly at me.

  “Retaliate?” I frown. “I don’t think he’s like that. In every vision I’ve had, he doesn’t even fight back. He actually seems very nonviolent. He’s the victim, Ebony. He needs our help.”

  “I agree.” She nods. “But I just wanted to know if you suspected anything else, Samantha. No stone unturned, you know.”

  “I know. But I really think God just wants us to help him. And maybe when I go to Fairmont, I can talk to him again.”

  “Yes. That would be good. And maybe we’ll have more information on him by then.”

  “Great. It’ll be such a relief to know that he’s safe. That last vision—the beating—it was so severe it made me feel sick.”

  “I understand.” Ebony frowns as she writes something down.

  “Well, I’ll let you get back to work,” I say, heading to the door.

  “I’m so glad your mom’s on her way home.” Ebony brightens now. “When does she get in?”

  So I tell her when I’m picking Mom up. “By the way, will she get her car back?”

  “Yes. The FBI will pick it up and go over it for evidence first.”

  “And hopefully her purse and things will still be there.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Do you think there’s any chance she’ll get her money back? I mean, what he stole from her bank account?”