by Kerr, Toni
"Well...." His mother exchanged a quick glance with the man. "Things are much different now." She lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply before continuing. "You were with him when it happened. I'll admit it was a little harsh to think about killing you then, mostly because I didn't know you like I do now. After all, it wasn't all your fault things weren't working between your father and I. You were just a baby."
Tristan hadn't known he'd been in the car crash and shut his mouth. He had to hear this out–his mother's words and thoughts–before automatically accusing her of lying.
"He was a terrible father, half mad if you ask me, always thinking people were out to kidnap you. Or kill you. Drove me insane. He wouldn't even put you in the back with the carseat, letting you ride in his lap while he drove. We'd get pulled over by the cops and did that teach him a lesson? No."
Her thoughts explained she was dealing drugs at the time and the last thing she needed was police attention in the car. She'd hoped the baby would be taken by the state to make life easier, or for his own safety, but they never did.
"By the time you were three," she continued, "I'd taken all I could handle. I had a friend work on the brakes, and paid him good money to make a few mistakes. I didn't know when it would happen, but I knew I wouldn't be in the car, and that you would. He took you everywhere."
Tristan swallowed hard, hearing the thoughts behind the words. The hardest part for her was putting on a show for everyone they knew, playing the loving wife and doting parent so no one would think she had motivation. Gloria the grieving widow.
"But you survived. And you proved useful a time or two. Who in their right mind suspects a single parent—" She cut her words short, but continued thinking about the clever ways she'd been able to keep illegal things hidden in plain sight with a toddler in tow. "That's why I kept you. I even had a legal way to get rid of you when you were six, and didn't take it. So be grateful."
"Grateful?" Tristan stared at the woman who claimed to be his mother.
"I had legal papers to have you committed by the state of North Carolina and all I had to do was drive you to the institution. Of course, it took some doing to prove you were dangerous to yourself and others to sway your shrink. But in the end, he agreed. The documents were completely legal and justified. I think I still have them somewhere...."
Tristan could only blink in horror.
"Oh, don't act so shocked. Look at yourself! You're hardly a well-adjusted, socially acceptable, stable person. And it creeps me out the way you know stuff. I can see Jimmy as, well, putting you out of your misery. It's the least I can do for you, and it's the only way I can move on with my life." She took another long drag on her cigarette, eyeing the man nervously as he picked up a small couch pillow. "What's that for?"
Even Tristan knew that one.
"It'll muffle the shot, a little at least," the man answered. "I ain't goin' to no meat locker for this."
"But the plan…." She shut up when Jimmy glared at her, then narrowed her eyes at Tristan. "Nothing since your birth has been good for me...except Jimmy here." She smiled brightly and patted his bulbous tattooed arm. "He'll fix it for me and we'll live happily ever after."
Tristan closed his eyes and sagged against the door, hearing his mother make up her mind to let Jimmy do whatever he thought best. Tristan had been willing to die on his own terms, but certainly not like this. And not now when he had a mission to accomplish. Sort of. If he could figure out what he was supposed to do.
"Now," Jimmy ordered, taking aim with the pillow placed over the tiny barrel. "Empty your pockets before I lose my patience."
"Do what he says, Tristan. Everything will be much nicer if you do."
"Nicer for who?" Tristan noticed a person's head just outside the dining room window, along with the motion of a hand to scoot over. Tristan stepped to the side of the door and squatted to fumble with his backpack.
"Get up. What are you doing?" the man asked, making nervous adjustments to the cushion against the front of his gun. "I said to empty your pockets!"
"It's at the bottom of the backpack. I'm getting it." Tristan unzipped the pack and pulled items from the bag one at a time, setting each carefully onto the carpet.
"Dump it or I'll kill you and do it myself!"
"Drop your weapon," commanded a calm voice, "and don't move." A police officer stepped in from the bedroom hall, pointing a gun at Jimmy. "We have you surrounded."
On cue, two additional officers fell into position from the front and back doors.
"I said, drop your weapon."
Jimmy dropped the cushion but not the gun. Tristan held his breath, forced through Jimmy's thought process of choosing a target: Tristan, to finish what he'd started, or the officer at the front door for practicality.
"Give me one reason to pull the trigger," said the first officer.
Jimmy finally concluded both targets were suicidal and the woman wasn't worth it. He lowered his gun. The officers at the hall and front door kept their guns steady on Jimmy and Tristan's mother, as a cop from the back door cuffed and searched Jimmy for other weapons, finding a flashy butterfly knife in an ankle holster.
Tristan moved out of the way as the officer from the front door cuffed his mother. She and Jimmy were both escorted outside, leaving Tristan alone with the first officer.
"How did you know—" Tristan froze, hearing a few random thoughts as confusion clouded the officer's sharp eyes.
"Weren't you the kid that ran from a murder scene a few weeks ago?"
"A few...weeks?" Hadn't he been in jail and set free when his alibi checked out?
"No, I suppose not." The officer blinked and shook his head. "The property manager thought there might be trouble and called us. I heard the window break, and then your neighbor rushed out and said she heard gunshots. Who in their right mind rushes out when they hear gunshots?" The officer rolled his eyes. "Crazy old people."
Tristan rubbed his temples to ease a brewing headache. "There were no gunshots. He never fired."
"Well, I'm glad nothing happened while we got in position." The gun was put away and the officer relaxed. "I had plenty of time to hear her confession. We'll be arresting them both."
Tristan smiled slightly, still confused by the officer's reaction to his involvement with the woman's murder.
"This is an official crime-scene now. I'll have to seal the place off and take you into custody—children services. We're a bit shorthanded this evening, so I'll take you myself. Unless…do you have a relative who can come get you?"
Tristan shook his head, then changed his mind. "Yeah, I have an aunt in town. She'll take me."
"Good. Because you're—" The officer seemed to forget what he was going to say. "Never mind. Pack up and I'll give you a lift."
Tristan nodded, stuffed everything back in his backpack and hurried to his room. It was a small town—there couldn't be more than a dozen officers, half of which were probably outside his house right now. Surely, if he'd been in a cell for a few weeks, he'd remember what it looked like. Every officer would certainly know he'd been freed. Why didn't the officer recognize him?
"You got guts, kid."
Tristan jumped and looked at a different officer holding a black rectangular box. When he pushed a button, a twangy rendition of his mother's voice filled the room. "...had a friend work on the brakes, and paid him good money to make a few mistakes. I didn't know when it would happen, but I knew I wouldn't be in the car, and that you would." The voice clicked off.
"Sounds like premeditated murder to me," said the officer with the tape recorder. "Smart thinking to get her confession on tape."
"I—" Tristan had no idea the conversation was being recorded. He'd never owned a tape cassette, not to mention an actual player that could record. How could he miss such a big thing when he was finding all the smaller stuff?
"We should have plenty of evidence."
"Good." Did it also contain evidence that there were legal papers to have him committed i
n a different state? He should have known about something that incriminating—how did she keep it hidden all this time? "I'll just be a minute."
When the officer left, Tristan exchanged his homework for all the camping gear he'd been collecting and stuffed his bed quilt and some clothing in a duffle bag. When he was finished, he met the first officer back in the kitchen and looked for anything practical, like a steak knife if he couldn't have his own pocketknife. He watched as the cassette was handed to another officer, who promptly sealed it in a clear bag and took it away.
An officer getting prints from the knife stopped what he was doing and stared at Tristan. "Aren't you the kid that ran...?"
Tristan tried to look innocent, like he didn't have a clue what the officer was talking about, and searched for the cop who'd offered him a ride. "I'll wait in my room. Until you're done. I have homework anyway."
"That'd be fine." The officer studied Tristan for an uncomfortably long moment until his face went blank. Tristan could only guess at what might be going through his head. If no one remembered freeing him because he had an alibi, but remembered him being at the scene...would they arrest him as a new suspect? Who brought him home if it wasn't the real police? "I'll need about ten minutes," the officer continued. "Then we can swing by the station on the way to your aunt's."
Tristan nodded, careful not to run to his bedroom. He closed the door, grabbed his bags, and escaped through the broken window without making a sound.
9
- JOURNEY OF DILEMMAS -
TRISTAN CROSSED THE TRESTLE for the last time, gazing through the passing trees from his window seat as the train gathered speed. He could barely make out the roof of his trailer and wondered what would become of his mother, sincerely hoping he would never have to face her again.
He had enough money to go pretty much anywhere, but the first train out of town headed to Chicago, then after a four-hour delay, west to Seattle. The trip would take three days, costing him three hundred dollars.
The thrill of leaving faded with distance, as did the fear of being wanted in every state for questioning. Or worse, for murder. Tristan vaguely remembered his classmates being involved at the woman's house. Would they be after him, too? He'd have to disguise himself just in case. He could cut his hair in Chicago, and color it if he had time. For now, he turned his attention to the folded piece of paper Gwenna gave him for clues about the emerald.
The edges of the supposed map were ragged, but not from being torn, or over-used—more like an untrimmed piece of handmade paper. Tiny bumps in the texture looked like seeds and plant fibers. Something about the page clung to his mind with cold desperate claws for attention. It was still folded into quarters—he slipped his fingers between the third and fourth layers and all awareness of the train vanished.
On the surface, the picture appeared drawn with a faint pencil. Closer inspection of the details sucked him into a realistic landscape, putting him on a solid cobblestone walkway.
Where was the train? He found himself standing at the top of a cliff, overlooking a kingdom with brilliant colors shining from everything—the fields, the small dwellings...even the roads and wooden fences. Giant birds with golden wings soared above the valley, over trees the size of castles. Flickering lights glittered over everything.
And music! Tristan closed his eyes and couldn't imagine what sort of thing would make such sound.
A light breeze played with the hair at his face and neck. A floral scent, sweet and warm like apple pie, took his breath away. His eyes flew open in a flash, suddenly aware that he couldn't breathe. All sense of awe and wonder fell to a dark cloud that quickly overtook the valley, consuming colors like a swarm of insects devouring the fields.
His vision shifted and he traveled among the darkness—soaring with the huge monsters that destroyed buildings with the flap of wings. Behind him lay piles of ash and rubble. Nothing alive. Nothing in color. Everything in ruins.
At some point, Tristan was on his feet again, running through fog and swampy meadows of an endless wasteland. For days. He couldn't remember where to go, only that he had a destination. If he didn't make it in time, people would die.
A sudden jolt yanked him out of the wasteland. He stared at an old woman with hot pink lipstick. She spat something in a different language, German maybe, with her nose inches from Tristan's. The train vibrated beneath him.
He wiped the spittle from his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt and blinked. It seemed to take several long moments to remember the train was real, not the wasteland he'd spent so much time in. Months maybe?
A few passengers stared at the woman making a scene. Or maybe they were watching him. "English?" he asked, trying to at least be polite. A wave of exhaustion hit him and he almost shut his eyes.
The woman pointed out the window with knobby fingers and kept speaking. Night had fallen. When she picked up her purse and headed up the aisle, Tristan spotted the folded piece of paper lying beside him.
If the woman hadn't knocked it out of his hand, would he still be running aimlessly through the badlands? He stood to find her, but she was already into the next train car. Witnessing passengers had gone back to whatever they'd been doing.
But the map called to him. He could feel the pull writhing under his skin. He'd only missed a turn somewhere. He finally made a decision and pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands to unfolded the page. He refolded it incorrectly, hoping to prevent it from working if he accidentally ever touched it again, then slipped it to the bottom of his backpack.
Chicago came and went in a blur, Seattle couldn't come fast enough.
Passengers paced up and down the aisles, often glaring at him for no reason. Faces changed from station to station, but the thick tension stayed the same, as did an odd lack of mental noise.
Some people had a way of keeping their thoughts silent, but this many in one place? It was almost tempting to talk to someone, since ordinarily thoughts and words were all jumbled at the same volume. He'd gotten pretty good at reading lips to determine which words were said and which weren't.
When the train arrived in Seattle, the city stretched on and on, much larger than what he'd imagined. He picked up a tourist map at the station, happy to be free of the train's confinement and tension, and headed into the open air. Crisp breeze of the harbor filled his lungs, less than a mile away. It'd be dark soon and he needed a plan.
He wasn't good with crowds under the best of circumstances, but being pushed shoulder to shoulder with so many people made his pulse race. The blaring noise of their thoughts pounded in his head, a sharp contrast to what he'd gotten used to on the train, as bad as any building full of teachers and students.
Tristan stopped at a chainlink fence, disappointed by the view of the harbor, even though he knew from the tourist map that it wasn't close to the open Pacific. Most of his childhood drawings had evolved around ships, but all he could see before him was acres of parking lot and concrete in the harbor. Enormous cranes loaded crates onto metal freighters, forklifts zoomed all over the place. He caught himself searching farther for marinas, spotting a tight cluster of masts in the distance. Was the plan to steal a ship and sail away?
He pressed his head against the fence and shut his eyes, desperate to block out all the distracting noises. Scouting the ships seemed like a good idea when he was still on the train...something less mainstream if the police were after him. But where was he going? Was any location safer than another if he was wanted by the police for leaving the state, or if he was being tracked by the murderer?
Maybe a bus ticket would do. He patted his front pockets, half-frantic when he couldn't feel the roll of bills, even more so when all he could find was eighteen dollars plus change in his backpack, and nothing in the duffle bag. Almost six hundred dollars. Gone. Banging his head and cursing against the chainlink fence didn't help either. Neither did wasting time.
Whatever. Turning back was not an option, and finding a way out of Seattle was more imp
ortant than picking a destination.
Before he had a decent amount of money, sleeping under the stars in a warm climate had been the plan. South from here—California. He'd need a town big enough to work in and small enough in population to not drive him insane.
He continued along the busy streets on the edge of the harbor, through a shopping district, until he stood at the waterfront overlooking hundreds of options. Masses of commercial fishing boats and private yachts lined an extensive maze of decking.
A bird skimmed the water. Tristan followed its flight until it arced upward, landing on the mast of a larger ship, where a group of people were coming down a ramp. He singled out who the captain might be, wondering if he could get focused information.
…farther tomorrow. The assumed captain was the last to walk down the ramp to join the waiting men. Tristan shut his eyes to focus more clearly on the voice. A few days out. We can unload in Newport. If anyone's late—fired! Three to one odds on the Leatrice.
If only the captain would think more clearly.
Tristan watched the crew gather in a semi-circle, facing the man while he talked. When the speech was complete, the group dispersed, most heading toward the boardwalk. Tristan squinted to read the ship's name, Falcon. Newport wasn't on his map.
What the heck am I thinking?
The bird perched on the mast caught his attention and flew away. For a split-second, it reminded him of the bird at the end of his driveway in the trailer park. The one his landlord didn't seem to notice. He shook his head, determined not to dwell on distracting thoughts.
Other options for transportation had to exist. He could see if a bus ticket was less than eighteen dollars. He could hitchhike. He could get a job and wait. He could sneak aboard a freight train. He could walk. Or, he could board the Falcon and be out of Seattle by dawn—if Newport was south.
