by Allen Zadoff
“I love chocolate,” he says.
“Everybody does,” I say. “So why do you have to hide it?”
Lee lowers his voice. “My father puts this stuff out on the table so he can see who eats it.”
“He watches?”
“Everything,” Lee says. “Nothing gets by him. Kids who eat the wrong snacks don’t get the invite. He considers it an indication of weakness.”
“That’s a little weird,” I say.
“Never let him hear you say that,” Lee says.
It tells me a lot about Moore. It tells me how careful I’ll need to be in the next ten minutes.
“Do you want something from the table?” he says.
“After what you just said?”
“It’s between you and me,” he says.
I look at the snacks on the table. Do I throw myself in with Lee, or do I set myself apart from him?
I turn my back to the anteroom like Lee did, and I select a chocolate chip cookie.
When in doubt, emulate. That’s what I’ve learned.
“Nice,” he says.
Lee finishes his brownie as I gobble down the cookie. When we’re finished, he wipes his chin and checks his sweatshirt for evidence of crumbs.
“You ready?” he says.
“Hold up,” I say.
I brush a couple of crumbs off his sleeve.
“You’re good to go,” I say, giving him the thumbs-up.
“Thanks,” he says. “You’re an okay guy, Daniel.”
“I hope your father thinks so.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Let’s see what happens.”
“Let’s,” I say.
A DOZEN KIDS HAVE BEEN SELECTED.
They form up outside the anteroom, each with a minder from Liberty next to them.
Lee motions me forward. I reach up to my glasses, refamiliarizing myself with the invisible latch that detaches the temple arm from the frame of the glasses.
We move past a woman in her midforties, wild black hair with blond dyed streaks, sweating in the air-conditioned room. She hangs around the side of the room, not in line but not far from it. Something about her energy doesn’t seem right.
Lee nods to her as we pass by.
“Is that someone’s mom?” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “She also teaches English classes at camp sometimes.”
“Interesting hairstyle.”
“You know English teachers,” Lee says. “They’re creative.”
To my surprise, Lee bypasses the line of candidates waiting for Moore, taking us right up to the front.
“No waiting?” I say.
“You’ve got VIP status because you’re with me,” Lee says.
“It’s good to be the heir apparent,” I say with a smile.
“Some days yes, some days no,” Lee says.
I look through the door into the anteroom. Eugene Moore is sitting behind a table in the back of the room.
He is not alone.
Flannel is standing next to him but slightly away from the table, a defensive position that gives him a clear line of sight and movement. Moore’s daughter, Miranda, comes in and sits next to her father. By her side is the wiry bodyguard with the swivel neck.
Moore, Miranda, Flannel, and Swivel Neck.
That makes four people in the room. When Lee takes me in, there will be five.
I’m going to have to create enough of a distraction to allow me to inject Moore without anyone noticing. I project myself through the process. I imagine taking off my glasses, dropping them at Moore’s feet, arming the weapon at the same time. Maybe Moore leans down to help me pick them up, and a forearm is exposed. Or maybe I get them myself, and I press the needle into his calf.
It will be tricky, but not impossible.
Twenty feet away now, moving through the last line of security. Lee puts his arm on my shoulders, an indication to all that we’re together. He’s personally bringing me through to meet his father.
All my senses are firing. I will my body to relax and I steady my breathing.
The room becomes a physics equation.
I register people’s expressions, map their bodies, calculate the angle of their sight lines as they shift in the room.
I note the distance to Moore, the closeness to Lee, the nods of the security men as they allow us to pass by without interference.
I’m ten feet away when Flannel looks up. Our eyes meet.
His expression changes the instant he sees me, but I can’t understand why. I showed him what I wanted him to see, the same thing I showed Moore earlier, excitement and doubt in equal measure.
But something is wrong.
Flannel touches Moore’s shoulder. Moore stops what he’s doing and leans toward him.
Flannel whispers something in Moore’s ear.
“Hey, Dad,” Lee calls as we move into the anteroom. “I want to introduce you to somebody.”
Six steps away now. I slip the glasses from my head, rock them back and forth in my hand, establishing a natural pattern of motion.
Flannel finishes whispering. Moore nods once, then he looks over at us, first at his son, then at me.
His look is intense, not at all friendly.
I counter his energy, allowing my face to slip into an easy smile, relaxing my body posture, placing my shoulders at their lowest, nonthreatening position. I tap the glasses against my thigh, my hand moving into position to detach them.
I take the final few steps toward Moore.
Lee begins to speak. “Dad, this is Daniel Martin—”
Moore cuts him off, shaking his head in a no gesture.
Things happen quickly after that.
Flannel steps in front of Moore, obscuring my view. Swivel Neck joins him, his hand rising in a blocking gesture.
Lee’s arm slips from around my shoulder and grips my bicep.
“Hold up,” he says.
Swivel Neck comes toward us.
“What’s going on?” I say, allowing my voice to rise.
“He doesn’t want to meet you,” Lee says.
“What do you mean? He chose me.”
“He changed his mind. I’m sorry. It happens sometimes.”
Lee is pulling me away from Moore now, and Swivel Neck has slipped his arm low around my waist, making sure I keep moving.
I could get away from both of them in a second, but it would bring more attention toward me.
“What about camp?” I say, desperation creeping into my voice.
“Camp is not an option,” Lee says.
“Maybe another session? Next summer or something?”
“When my father says no, the decision is made. I’m sorry you came all the way out here. I didn’t know it would go like this.”
Additional security people are moving toward us, tightening the circle around me. People around the room are craning their necks to see what’s going on.
Something off to the side catches my eye. The English teacher with wild hair is moving behind the security people. She’s using my distraction to push forward, past the remnants of the line to Moore.
She fumbles with her purse, trying to get ahold of something.
“You’re going to have to leave,” Swivel Neck says, and he clamps down on my arm.
I look to Lee for help, but he’s moving away, no longer willing to engage with me.
I resist Swivel Neck, and his grip tightens on my arm. He’s strong, obviously a guy who works out, but he’s not an expert. His grip is too low. Grab higher up on someone’s arm and you lock out the shoulder joint. Even more effective would be to bear hug me out of the space. That’s how bouncers are trained to deal with drunks. Come up behind and clamp them around the middle, pinning their arms against their bodies.
Swivel Neck doesn’t do that. He grips me low and by the elbow, and while it’s painful because of the nerve plexus there, it allows the rest of my body full range of motion.
Just then the wild-haired woman pulls an object from her
purse.
It’s a small pistol, matte black metal clutched in her hand.
I’m watching an assassination attempt unfolding. An inexpert one. The way she holds the gun, I can see this English teacher is not a trained assassin.
She’s rushing toward Moore, trying to swing the pistol free from her purse when her wrist snags in the purse handle. She fights to free it, losing a precious two seconds.
Her loss is my gain.
I calculate the distance, the time it will take me to get to her.
And I calculate something else—the chance of her success. Because if she shoots and kills Moore, I can walk away, my mission accomplished without my having to be involved at all.
But one look at her tells me the odds are bad. She’s sweating and terrified, stumbling as she rushes toward him.
If she shoots Moore and misses, the security cordon will close down around him. He will retreat to his encampment, and I will not get another chance.
So I make a choice.
I tense my shoulder, lift and then snap my elbow down quickly, breaking Swivel Neck’s grip.
I leap away, dodging another security guy in the process.
The security guards are reaching for me and shouting. Lee turns toward us, surprised to see me still there.
All attention on me now, none on the woman with the gun.
She raises the pistol, her face a mask of anger.
That’s when I leap, propelling my entire body toward the woman.
I shout “Gun!” at the same time, hoping the word will be enough to set off a well-practiced response from Moore’s bodyguards.
I hit the woman from the side and the gun goes off high, shattering a light fixture above us. Someone screams in the room behind me. The woman fires twice more as she goes down, but by then I’ve got her arm extended away from her body and toward the wall, where the rounds can do no harm.
The woman is shouting beneath me.
“Let me go! My daughter, he can’t take her!”
I clamp her wrist hard, forcing her to release the pistol.
As soon as it’s out of her grip, she cries in rage and frustration, collapsing into a heap under me.
Young people from the camp are on us by then, one pinning the woman’s arms, another sitting on her chest so she won’t be able to get away.
“You can’t have her, Moore!” she shouts. “Not my baby!”
One of the boys is clamping her mouth, her screams muffled beneath his hand.
I glance behind me, and a group of young people have surrounded Moore. They’re rushing him out of the room.
“Call the police!” one of the recruits says.
“No,” his camp minder says. “There’s no need for that.”
I look to the back of the room to see where Moore exited, and I’m surprised to find him still in the room, arguing with a group of campers.
They’re trying to get him to go, and he’s refusing to leave.
The English teacher is still pinned on the ground crying. Suddenly she gets a second wind, fighting her way out from the grip of several boys.
“Mooooore!” she shrieks. “You can’t do this!”
That’s when Moore comes striding forward through the crowd.
He touches the shoulder of one of the boys sitting on the woman’s legs, and the boy stands up. He nods to the other boys holding her, and they, too, let go.
The woman doesn’t know what to do. She lies on the ground like a turtle turned on its back. She looks up at Moore helplessly.
He comes closer to her and kneels down.
It’s possible I could get to Moore, approaching in the confusion until I am close enough to touch him. But it’s too risky.
I’m going to have to find a different way.
Moore whispers to the woman too quietly for me to be able to hear it. Her face goes from hatred, to surprise, to something else, something almost peaceful.
After a moment he extends a hand to help her up. She takes it without a word, brushing herself off as she stands.
The two of them face each other—
Then Moore holds out his arms, and the woman steps into them, embracing him.
Several people in the room gasp. Next to me, a girl wipes tears from her eyes.
Moore hugs the woman, and a moment later he is on the move again, walking toward the back of the room surrounded by his people. He looks at me as he passes by but doesn’t speak. He quickly disappears through the back door.
A number of girls cluster around the distraught woman. They seem to know her, stroking her shoulders and back and leading her away.
A moment later Lee is by my side.
“Are you okay?” he says.
“I don’t know,” I say like I’m shaken up, even though I’m quite sure I’m fine.
Lee checks me from head to toe, performing a quick injury assessment like someone with advanced first aid training would know to do.
“You weren’t hit,” he says.
“Thank God,” I say. “Are the police here yet?”
“No police,” Lee says. “We’ll deal with this internally.”
“Earlier you said you know that woman.”
Lee looks toward the ground.
“Her daughter is at camp, but she’s convinced that something bad is going to happen.”
“Is it?”
“On the contrary,” Lee says. “It’s something good.”
There’s a joyful light in his eyes that troubles me.
I look around the room, gauging the reaction among the other campers. They are strangely quiet, going about their business cleaning up and organizing the room as if nothing happened.
They may be quiet, but I react like a normal boy would after the shock of an intense experience wears off. I start to shiver, let my breathing get shallow and rapid.
“I think I need to sit down,” I say.
Lee looks worried. “Try to relax,” he says. “It’s totally normal to feel like this after your body gets a shot of adrenaline.”
“I can’t believe what just happened,” I say. “She tried to kill your father.”
“She tried,” Lee says. “But you stopped her.”
He backs away a little, his demeanor shifting.
“How did you stop her, Daniel?” he says.
“I don’t know exactly, I just grabbed her.”
“You didn’t just grab her. You tackled her and held her gun arm out of range so she wouldn’t have a firing solution.”
He’s much more perceptive than I realized. I have to be careful now.
“You looked like a pro out there,” he says.
“A pro what?”
“A security pro.”
“I have some training,” I say.
“What kind of training?”
“Martial arts. My father thinks it’s important that a person knows how to defend himself.”
He glances over my shoulder toward the back door.
“You’ll need to tell my father about that,” he says.
“Your father?”
“He wants to talk to you now.”
MOORE STANDS IN THE GLARE OF TRUCK HEADLIGHTS BEHIND THE COMMUNITY CENTER.
I cannot see his face, only his profile behind those of the young men who protect him.
Lee guides me in. We pass Miranda, one side of her face lit by headlights, the other in darkness.
Lee stops suddenly and gestures for me to continue forward on my own. The security people stand in a line on both sides, but they let me pass.
I step into the glare of the headlights. Moore waits for me to come closer.
Four steps away now. The air seems to vibrate around him. He stands with one hand on the truck hood, his lower half lit by the headlights, but his face in darkness.
I stop when I am two feet away. It’s known as the privacy zone. In the western world, strangers naturally stand about twenty-four inches from one another. Closer in Asian countries. Farther away in Britain.
But it
’s twenty-four inches in the United States. Farther than that and you send the message that you are afraid. Closer and it feels rude, antisocial. Or dangerous.
I stop at twenty-four inches, communicating to Moore that I am neither afraid nor a threat.
I can’t see his eyes, but I can sense him looking at me. There are people all around us, just outside the range of the headlights, watching my every move.
I consider reaching for my glasses, a seemingly innocuous gesture that would put a weapon in my hands, but when I glance left, I note a trace of red-and-gray plaid in the shadows.
Flannel.
He is here on the periphery, circling like a shark. I choose to keep my hands by my sides.
“Are you a hero?” Moore asks.
His voice is more powerful up close, clear and confident.
“I don’t think so,” I say, my voice uncertain.
“You acted in a heroic way.”
“It happened so fast. I’m not even sure what I did.”
“You stopped an assassination attempt.”
“I just reacted,” I say.
“People who react are heroes.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Moore says, and he reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder as if to steady me.
Physical contact. Moore is inside my kill zone, but I’m pinned in the light, surrounded by people. I can’t move in any way that might appear threatening.
“So you’re calling me a hero?” I say, like I can’t believe it.
Moore’s grip suddenly tightens on my shoulder. I squirm beneath it, acting as if I’m surprised and in pain because of the pressure he’s exerting there.
A normal person would be both.
I am neither. I am curious.
“You’re hurting me,” I say.
“You know what bothers me about what you did?” Moore says.
I try to get out from his grip, but I cannot, not without taking serious defensive action.
“The difference between a hero and a villain is a very thin line,” Moore says.
I look up at him like I’m scared.
“I don’t think I’m either of those things.”
He bears down even more on my shoulder. I let my face wince in pain.
