The Tracker

by Chad Zunker

  I rushed to the front window. I didn’t spot anyone on the walkway. I reached over, unlocked the door. Looking back, I saw light penetrate the hole in the bottom of the wall behind me, and I knew I had a matter of seconds. I said a prayer as I sprinted into the parking lot. There was nowhere to hide. I was thirty yards from the protection of the woods, completely exposed. As I ran, I looked over and spotted the gray Oldsmobile empty, with the driver’s door wide open.

  I was ten feet from the edge of the woods when I heard feet behind me in the parking lot. I dove forward into the grass and heard a pop hit a tree two feet to my left. I rolled further into the grass, heard another pop right above me, the splitting of bark. I was behind a tree now, up, running again, unable to see much. Tiny branches from bushes and small trees slapped against my arms and face. I found a small clearing with several large piles of brush. I moved behind the largest pile and lay on my stomach. There was enough moonlight to make out shadows and figures. I felt small cuts and scrapes all over my face. Had I been shot? I felt fluids on me, but I thought it was just sweat. Not blood. At least, not my own blood. My adrenaline was pumping so fast that I wasn’t sure I could tell if all my limbs were still intact.

  I heard a snap like a foot stepping on a branch. Then I saw a shadow move past. It looked like he was dressed in all black. It was easy to see the shine of the gun with the long barrel in his right hand. Five feet away. I held my breath, tucked my chin low. He paused, turned. The moonlight splashed over his face. He had short hair, almost a buzz cut. Mid-thirties, my guess. Strong square jaw. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t place him. He scanned the clearing, looked over and around me, then took several steps forward. Past me now. Five feet. Ten feet. Twenty feet. He moved into the next set of wooded acreage. Then he disappeared into darkness.

  When I could no longer see the shadow of his figure in the moonlight, I crawled out from the brush. Then I took a deep breath and sprinted back the way I’d come. I hit the parking lot but never slowed down. It wasn’t until I was running through a ditch beside the highway that I realized I no longer had my phone. It had fallen from my pocket somewhere in the frenzy of the chase. I’d lost it. And the video. But there was no turning back. I had sidestepped death once already. I wasn’t going to push it.

  It wasn’t my first near-death experience. That came much earlier in life, when I was ten.

  SAM CALLAHAN

  Age Ten

  Denver, Colorado

  The tiny closet was completely empty. Just tattered carpet and walls. No shelves. No other items. And scary dark. Not even a hint of light creeping in from the bedroom under the door. My angry foster dad wanted this place to be scary, which was why he’d completely sealed the cracks in the door and nailed plywood to the walls. You couldn’t see your hand six inches in front of your face. He called it The Hole – the cramped space I was dragged into when he wasn’t happy, either with me or with life. Unfortunately for me, he was unhappy a lot lately, and he’d become more violent in the past two weeks. Mainly when my foster mom was out working the late shift.

  I was used to the violence. The system was full of violence. They couldn’t stop it. I’d already gone through eight different foster parents, mostly crummy adults who knew how to work the system, scam cash from the state, and somehow make me look presentable enough when CPS workers were scheduled to stop by and check on us. Sometimes they didn’t get away with it. Like the last guy. It was hard for them to hide cigarette burns on the arms or the two black eyes, although they’d certainly tried. The mom made me wear makeup. I was glad to say goodbye to those losers. The Hole felt like a resort hotel compared to my foster dad three rotations ago, a military man who’d put out four different leather belts on the bed, some embedded with stones or metals, and asked me to choose one for the whooping that night.

  My current foster mom, Judy, wasn’t so bad. I don’t think she knew what her husband, Carl, did with us when she wasn’t around, which was usually when he took too heavily to the bottle. We dreaded Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. There were two of us. Amy was eight. A shy blonde.

  I was wearing only my white underwear. Carl made me sit in the dark in nothing but my tighty-whities for up to ten brutal hours at a time. The carpet beneath me was worn and smelled like wet dog. I placed my hand on the back of my head, massaged it. Carl had grabbed me by the back of my head with a thick fistful of hair after his eighth beer (I always counted), dragged me down the hallway, and practically lifted me off the floor when he tossed me into The Hole. I think he took chunks of my hair out.

  But that’s not what concerned me the most. I was tough. I could survive Carl.

  It was the girl. Amy. She had stopped talking a few days ago. She just went numb.

  Something was terribly wrong. And I had a feeling it had to do with what was happening with Carl while I was locked in The Hole and Judy was working the late shift.

  I had a plan tonight. I’d been working it out in my mind throughout the day.

  I reached into the corner and felt around until I found the lump where I’d placed it. My escape. I peeled off the duct tape and grasped the small knife that I’d hidden a few days ago. Then I stood and began feeling around the walls in the dark. The closet was five feet deep and five feet wide. I opened the knife to reveal the blade, stuck the knife in between my teeth, put my hands up on one wall, then lifted one bare foot to the wall behind me. I secured that foot, held both hands firmly in place, then lifted the second foot, until I had my body lifted up off the carpet. Then I began to work my way in the dark toward the ceiling, parkour-style. One hand sliding up six inches, then the other, then one foot, then the other.

  Within a minute, I was pressed up against the ceiling. I secured myself with my left hand and held firmly with both feet flat against the other wall, my muscles shaking from the stress. I reached up with my right hand, toward the corner, and completely blind, I felt along the ceiling. Just as I expected. Carl had not nailed plywood to the ceiling. It was regular sheetrock. I worked quickly, grabbing the knife from my teeth, holding it in my tight fist, and while still secure with one hand and two feet, I jabbed the blade into the ceiling sheetrock and worked it back and forth, slicing and cutting. I began to sweat. It was hot as hell in The Hole. There was no circulation. I got a few inches cut out and then slowly descended to the carpet to take a breather. Then I was back up and working again. Up and down.

  It took me ten minutes, but I finally pushed a square of sheetrock up and out of the ceiling. A humid and dark attic was above me. The knife back between my teeth, I was able to get a hand up and through the hole. I grabbed a board somewhere, then swiftly reached around with my second hand to the board as my bare feet dropped. My legs swung and banged up against the closet wall with a thud. I felt a twinge of panic. Could Carl hear that? I dangled from the ceiling for a second, listening, then I quickly pulled myself up into an attic crawl space.

  My heart was racing. I crawled in the dark around boards and insulation until I found what I was looking for ten feet away. A ceiling attic door from the other closet in the second bedroom. I quietly slid it open, seeing my first sign of light from the bedroom. I dropped my feet into the closet, set them on shelves, and quickly worked my way down to the carpet. I stepped around the bed and raced to the bedroom door, cracked it open. I hoped I was not too late. Peeking out, I saw Carl standing drunk in the living room. A baseball game was on the TV. He was yelling at it, his words slurred. He was bare chested in jeans, his belly hanging over the front of them, a beer can in his hand.

  I crawled on all fours. Hid behind one of the couches. Carl and Amy were on the other side. I could hear Amy softly crying. I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to kill this man. I moved quickly, crawling on the floor to the table in the corner next to the greasy recliner. The phone was on the table. I carefully reached up, took it off its cradle, and dialed 911. A police lady answered. I said nothing. Instead, I sat the phone down on the carpet, face up so that the rec
ipient could hear into the room.

  Then I saw Carl drop his beer to the carpet, turn and move toward Amy on the couch. When Amy let out a loud whimper, something erupted in me. I sprang up over the couch, lunged at Carl, drove the knife blade straight into his back.

  Carl let out a gasp, stumbled forward. He reached around, pulled the knife out, stared at it and the dripping blood in disbelief. Then his red eyes connected with mine, and I could tell he was going to try to jab it in me. He was a crazy man. He took a step toward me, knife in his angry fist, swung wildly. I ducked out of the way. Carl was woozy and wobbled to a knee. We had to get out of there or I was dead.

  I grabbed Amy’s hand, yanked her from the couch.

  We ran straight out the front door, across the street to Margie’s house, the nice old lady who often gave us chocolate. I pounded on the door with my fist. Amy was crying. I wrapped my skinny arm around her to protect her.

  I was still in my underwear. It was embarrassing and terrifying.

  Carl was on the front sidewalk now, cursing at the top of his lungs, searching for us.

  Margie opened the door. Before she could say anything, we rushed inside.

  I could hear a siren a block away. We hid in the corner of the kitchen.

  Margie quickly covered us both with blankets. We were trembling.

  Amy was stuck to my side. She wouldn’t let go.

  FOUR

  Saturday, 2:06 a.m.

  Boerne, Texas

  2 days, 21 hours, 54 minutes to Election Day

  I stared at myself in the cracked mirror. I now had dozens of tiny cuts from running through the woods; salty beads of sweat stung like hell as they rolled down my face. Then there was the blood, and not just my own. On my right cheek, on my ear, and all the way down the right side of my neck. I couldn’t stop thinking about the look in Rick’s eyes. I began to splash cold water on my face. Ran my wet fingers through my hair. Slowly cleaned myself up the best that I could. Tried to get my bearings.

  The restroom was in the back of a convenience store that was currently closed. After all, it was now after two in the morning. I had picked the restroom lock with a thin shard of metal I found near the dumpster. A few tugs and scrapes of the shard in the key hole, and I was inside. It all came back so easily.

  I’d run probably two miles along the highway before finally feeling safe enough to peel off somewhere and try to regroup. Catch my breath. Formulate a new plan of action. I was alone again, and now there were two dead. I was supposed to be dead body number three. They’d made that very clear, whoever they were. Someone on McCallister’s security team? I hadn’t had a moment to even think about that yet. However, I knew they would keep coming. I couldn’t slow down, no matter how physically and mentally exhausted I was.

  The restroom stunk something fierce. I finally gave up on cleaning, sat on the dirty floor, back against the metal door. I had nothing. My phone was gone. My wallet was in the motel room along with my bag and backpack. I had the clothes on my back and a few dollars in my pocket. And that was it. There was no way I was ever going back to get anything. Surprisingly, I was breathing easier. Either my body had gone into complete shock or I had shifted into survival mode. Probably the latter. If nothing, I was a survivor. Always had been. I’d faced a couple attempts on my life. It had been a long time, but I’d felt that familiar surge of adrenaline and fear before. You don't live on the streets as a teenager without a gang member trying to stick a shiv in you at some point. But this was a different rodeo altogether.

  This was a man dressed in all black with a gun and silencer.

  Had I been set up?

  I had to think. I had to focus. I had to rest.

  I closed my eyes, put my head back against the door.

  This wouldn’t have been the first time I got screwed in a setup.

  SAM CALLAHAN

  Age Twelve

  Denver, Colorado

  The siren woke me first. Just a quick wail, then it shut off.

  Then I saw the red and blue flashing lights through the window.

  The Denver Broncos clock on the nightstand said it was eleven-thirty.

  I peered through the cheap blinds. Andrew and Jenny, my foster parents for the past nine months, were both outside standing in the cracked driveway. Two policemen in uniform were standing next to them. I saw neighbors staring out their front doors from across the street in our low-income neighborhood. I turned around, dropped my head over the edge to the bunk bed below me. Jet was still gone. I hadn’t seen him all day. I knew it was trouble. Jet was always getting in trouble. Although only twelve, like me, Jet had a mean streak. I had my own anger issues, no doubt, but Jet was different. He’d flipped a switch a long time ago. Jet was ruthless. He would slap an old lady in the face on the sidewalk just to steal two bucks out of her pocket, and he wouldn’t even feel bad about it. He’d gotten pissed at Jenny a few weeks ago, even took a swing at Andrew in the kitchen.

  I didn’t understand why Jet was trying to blow this deal up for us. It was the best situation either of us had ever experienced in the system. Hell, I’d already bounced through ten unstable foster homes. But Andrew and Jenny McGregor were different. They seemed like honest and good people. They were kind, warm, and present. To a cynical kid like me, who’d seen and experienced the cruelty of the system over and over again, they seemed too good to be true. They told us early on that they could not have their own kids, even though they had tried for more than ten years. Now, in their mid-thirties, they felt like God was calling them to foster those of us in the so-called “aged-out” category. Lately, the conversation had shifted toward adoption. I resisted at first. Of course I wanted it to be true, but the system had a brutal way of repeatedly yanking the hope out of your hands.

  The adoption talk really rattled Jet. He started lying, stealing, and provoking them however he could the past few weeks. I didn’t understand it. I’d been amazed at the level of patience Andrew and Jenny had shown to my bunkmate. But I knew it wouldn’t last forever. Everyone had a breaking point. I tried to talk some sense into Jet but he wouldn’t listen to me. Kept telling me to get my head out of the clouds, that this wasn’t real, that kids like us don’t ever get a real family. Might as well get it over with now before it’s an even bigger disappointment. Screw that, Jet said. He was getting out. He even threatened to put a knife in me while I slept if I didn’t shut up about it and leave him alone.

  I wasn’t scared of Jet, but I believed he would try. I felt bad for him. I knew he’d been at the wrong end of some bad things. Much worse than me. He’d wake up screaming from some awful nightmares, then try to pretend it was nothing. Just the same, I’d slept with one eye open every night for the past month.

  I stared out the blinds again. Something was wrong.

  This wasn’t about Jet missing or running away. This was about Andrew.

  Andrew held out his wrists. One of the police officers actually put handcuffs on him, led him over to the back of the police car. Jenny was crying hysterically. I was getting pissed. I knew Jet was behind this. I could tell lately he was up to something. He did not take discipline well. I’d seen him playing on Andrew’s computer, sneaking in and out of their bedroom.

  I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to punch Jet in the face.

  The next day, my suspicions were confirmed. Jet was still gone, but a lawyer was sitting at the small kitchen table with Jenny. I overheard most of it. The police had received an anonymous tip, secured a search warrant, and found something on Andrew’s home computer.

  I thought of Jet. He’d set Andrew up in a big way, then bolted.

  I sat in the living room playing video games. Jenny was crying again.

  The lawyer was completely incompetent. I could already tell. He had thin, greasy hair combed poorly over to the side and wore a brown suit that looked like it was twenty years old. He was giving Jenny horrible advice. I’d been around enough lawyers to have a good grasp of how it all worked, and this guy was talking out
of his ass. He must have gotten his degree from a community college. But I knew Andrew and Jenny couldn’t afford a real lawyer. Andrew was a history teacher at a small private high school and barely made enough. Drove a beat up fifteen-year-old Toyota truck. Jenny had worked part-time at a day care center before quitting when we arrived to make sure she invested as much as possible in us. The house was falling apart. There was no money to fix broken windows or bad plumbing.

  This was bad. Really bad. I was screwed. I felt it all slipping away.

  An hour later, CPS showed up and took me away.

  Jenny cried again and hugged me tightly. She promised that it was only for a day or two, that they’d be coming to get me soon enough. The lawyer was going to handle all of it for them. She felt very confident in that.

  “Don’t worry, Sam,” she said, hugging me, tears in her eyes. “Everything will be cleared up in a few days, and we’ll get back to being a family again.”

  As I drove off in the back of that car, I had a hardened pit in my stomach.

  Maybe Jet was right. Kids like me don’t ever get a family.

  Because I knew I would never see Jenny or Andrew again.

  FIVE

  Saturday, 3:06 a.m.

  Boerne, Texas

  2 days, 20 hours, 54 minutes to Election Day

  I dozed off and on in ten-minute spurts. My back was still pressed against the cold restroom door. I needed some rest and allowed myself the luxury. But it was difficult. I kept waking at every shift of the wind or dog bark or random truck driving by in the distance. Rick's face right in front of me, alive one moment and dead the next. Dreaming of the blonde woman looking out her motel window, wondering if she was searching for me, then seeing her lying in her own blood on the carpet. Flashes of the man with the square jaw hunting me down in the woods. I kept jumping up and cracking open the bathroom door, expecting to find that same man outside with a gun.