by T L Costa
I walk into the coffee shop. Grab an extra-large, willing myself to be comforted by all the soft colors and the smooth jazz, but it doesn’t work. I take out the phone, Google the number for the news desk at the Times and call. Have to wait through a menu like light-years long. I enter the first few letters of Jones. Crap, there’s like six of them. Looking around the shop, I enter the first few letters of Donovan. I look out through the window, out onto the street. The image of the guy, strands of gray dusting his high and tight, the guy with the too-crisp turtleneck and khakis, in the sunglasses, with no hat and only a sleek-looking blazer, cuts at me right through the glass.
It’s hard to swallow. It’s just a guy going to work. Going to get a coffee, maybe, or something. But he’s watching. Watching like he’s not meaning to be watching. I look down, letting my hair fall in front of my face and I tug my hood up so far that I feel it tug at my back.
Voicemail, shit. Now what do I say? “Hey, Donovan, My name’s Tyler MacCandless and I’ve been flying drones for Haranco and they’re using them to run heroin. Email me back at [email protected], since I have to ditch the phone. Later.” I sound like a freak, but hey, it is what it is.
Paying for my coffee, I look outside. The guy is gone. Perfect. Maybe after I have my coffee my imagination will calm down.
I head towards where I locked up the bike yesterday. It’s cold, but I know I have to walk to Brandon’s. I rode my bike over yesterday, and Rick’s seen my bike, knows what it looks like, would tell his guy to look for it. Sideswiping the side of a building, the stone feeling good and solid just for a second, I stop, absorb the impact, let it ride through me. Shit. I push my back into the building. Think. How the hell do I get to Brandon’s from here on foot?
Pushing off the column, I keep moving, checking my periphery for anything suspicious. Brandon’s. Is it really a good idea to meet Ani at Brandon’s? Rick doesn’t know Brandon personally, doesn’t know where he lives. It’s fine. B’s safe for now. Have to make sure they don’t follow me there, though. Don’t hurt B.
I look behind me, all around. Nothing weird, nothing strange, so I turn and take the footpath through the old campus. Scooting inside the bank lobby, I can feel my shoulders relax a little in the nice blast of warm air kicking out from the heaters as I roll on up to the ATM. I’m totally just being paranoid. I hit the max machine withdrawal of four hundred bucks. The worst thing that’s gonna happen is that I get mugged with all this cash. Rick likes me, dammit. He wouldn’t…
Reflected in the window is the figure of the man from the coffee shop.
All feeling gets sucked right out of my limbs. He’s on the other side of the street. I leave the building and walk south.
He follows. Still on the opposite side of the street, across four lanes of morning traffic, he’s there. I feel him. Heart beating like crazy, cars and buses and trucks roaring by, I put some iron into my stride, thinking through my mental maps of New Haven’s streets. If I go up towards the green I could maybe lose him in the alleys of the arts district, or, he could know the alleys and corner me. A red car veers too close, blowing my hair up around my ears.
Shit. Have to think. I turn left, trying to get over to York Street, but way back at the edge of High, I see him stop. He gets into a white car.
Great, see? Totally overreacting. I force myself to take in a long, shaky breath. Just some guy meeting his ride. Not true. Get out of here. I brush past a group of Yalies going to class, then turn, sprint back the way I came. Just in case. If he thinks that I’m headed over to York, then I’ll go back, go the other way, just cause.
After about three minutes, the adrenaline slowly leaves my legs and I walk like normal again. Start to feel really, really cold. The cars and noise and exhaust of Grove Street hit me like a wall. Just reaches out and smacks me in the face, but I keep my head down, waiting till I hear the buzzer for the blind people, and step out into the street.
Tires, squealing, up to my right, the white car, the white car swerves around the car in front of it and races towards the intersection, tires shrieking. Coming for me. Standing in the middle of the road.
I can’t feel anything, can’t think, for a second I can’t move, all I see is a rusted iron grill and a wide white car speeding towards me. Heartbeat wild, my legs unlock and I sprint, flying the rest of the way across the intersection. The car clips the side of the curb trying to get me, but I’m faster, running. Legs pounding into the cement, I run the sidewalk, keeping as close to the wall of Grove Street Cemetery as possible. The car keeps up with me, and my one brief glimpse into the window of the car sees a flash of something black. Something deadly. Something pointed right at me. I stop. Just pull a full stop. There is no way they can bang a U in all this traffic. No freaking way. I turn and I run back the other way up the street, along the wall.
I hear tires wail as they try to stop, but I send my feet grinding into the cement, grinding and not feeling anything but the breath beating its way into my lungs as I take the corner, part of the wall is broken, crumbling, perfect. I run right at it, wrap my arm up tight around the top, and pull myself over, landing in a flash of pain and panic and just straight up euphoria in the land of the dead.
The cemetery stretches on forever. Acres of crooked tombs, dying trees surrounded by huge stone walls.
Walking quickly, I stomp over odd lumps of grass and make my way around the tombs to the back wall. Brown stalks of grass whip at my knees through my jeans as I go, trying to not think, trying to not do anything but get to the back wall. Only one entrance in, blocked to cars, at the front. They’ll be covering that. Shit. But they’re tracking me. They’ll know I’m here.
I stop. My phone. Have to lose the phone. Damn. There’s the big stone wall to my right, I trudge over, climb up a tree, and make my way up on top of the wall. Brown leaves sticking in my hair, I wait, staring at the traffic about five feet away. I throw my phone onto the top of a Greyhound as it passes. I liked that phone. I’m going to miss it. But hey, that they are tracking for sure. So it goes. Or I’m dead.
The thought hollows out the others in my head. Sits in the middle, then I let the other gazillion things rolling around in my head smother it up, push it down. Rick will kill me. Have me killed. I need to focus.
Climbing back down, the grass nips at my ankles as I make my way through the cemetery. Should have worn socks. I jog. Looking around, no one else here, no one else lurking around the dead trees. The yard seems so still, so quiet compared to the madness of the city outside. Running through the street maps in my head, as I jog, breath freezing and splashing little chunks of ice onto my cheeks with each footfall, I make it to the back wall. Tall, stone. No trees.
Check back, anyone back there? Yes. Someone’s moving. Behind me. On foot. I duck down behind the nearest tomb, cold stone freezing my back. Shit. Have to move. Guy on foot. Walking. I peek. Can’t see much. He’s behind a tree, about five hundred yards away. How do I get over this wall? Right. Wall. Most of the tombs are too far to climb for a jump. I look right, rubbing my shoulders to keep warm. Shit, I’m going to die in a cemetery. It’d be funny if it didn’t involve me dying. Wait. About two hundred yards down to my left there’s a break in the wall, just some rubble off the top that piled up at the base in a mass of broken cement.
The guy behind me is moving. The gravel of the footpath crunching beneath his feet. I don’t stop to look to see who the hell he is or which direction he’s going, I just freaking bolt. Fly over to the wall, feet meeting jagged shards of rubble, cutting, biting, tearing my legs just over the tops of my shoes as I climb up, hands scraping as I climb, but then I’m up, and then I’m over. And then I don’t look, I just run. Don’t hear the car tires screeching as I cut out in front of traffic, don’t listen to the low growl echoing up through my throat as I run, don’t care that my hands are cut and torn and bleeding. I just run across the street and plow between the dividers that mark the beginning to the Farmington canal path. The bicycle path that’s going to
take me to my brother, if I can only make it…
Warm water coursing over my body feels so good, so alien. Like at first I just feel the drops of water hitting my skin like the surface of an umbrella, bending it, but not feeling the impact, not really. Eventually, my skin yields, adrenaline dissipating into the steam. Safe for a minute, here at Brandon’s. I can shower and think and breathe. Scrub my hands through my hair, work through the burn that comes with the start of sensation. Think. I run through my list.
The list. The list, the maps, the possible options that I have for surviving Rick. None of it is good. None of it. I know it was real. I know what they were doing. So I have to go. Easy as that. Brought Ani into it, now it’s my fault she’s a target.
Turning off the shower after what seems like forever, I dry off and throw on the clean clothes that B left lying on top of the counter. Still smell like him. Like home. God, Mom, should I call Mom again? I used B’s phone. Did she get my message? She’s where, California? Should brush my teeth, though, Ani will be here soon. Running my hand through the stuff left on the counter, razors and shaving creams, I find a tube of toothpaste and throw some on my fingers. Better than nothing, I guess.
Looking down as I rinse, what’s that? A bag? Pharmacy bag. From the hospital pharmacy. Still stapled shut.
Unopened.
Untouched.
He left the hospital five days ago.
Ripping open the bag, I see the big orange bottle of antibiotics. Three times a day. Three times a day or he’s dead, right? Endocarditis? He told the visiting nurse to leave. Said he’d take the pills and the shots and take care of it but he left the hospital early. The doctor’s words tear through my head like steel.
It’s too much. Just too much. Everything, Rick, everything, the hit man, everything, B in the hospital. The room moves in violent, sharp waves around me.
I grab the bottle of pills and slam them into the wall. Everything, everything I’ve done for him, everything I’ve given up and he doesn’t care. Throws his fucking life away like it’s some kind of joke. He’s going to kill Mom, kill me. Slam.
Palm slapping the bottle against the wall, it cracks. Slam. Bitter orange plastic slices the skin of my hand. Slam. I pound it against the wall again. Slam. Shoving the plastics further into my hand, pills raining down on the floor.
Why doesn’t he care why doesn’t he just know I need him why can’t he see and now I’m going to fucking die and no one will be here to save him to care when he dies to cry when they put him in the ground and all I ever wanted to do in my life was see him get better and now we’re both hit.
The door to the bathroom opens with a bang. I think somebody says my name, but I can’t hear, can’t think over my heart and liver and lungs unhitching as I beat the stupid bottle.
Brandon, Ani right behind him, standing in the doorway. My face is hot, wet, nose running and mouth flopping.
Brandon’s eyes pop. Pop up and then skydive when they see what’s on the floor, what’s happening. Yeah. Yeah, asshole.
He looks at me, and even though I know that his color is totally off and that he’s too thin and that his face is starting to look older than it should, all I see is the kid who taught me to ride my bike, the kid who would sneak in my room and read me Captain Underpants at night after lights out.
That look that I’m having to grow so used to, like he’s there, inside, trapped in a body he can’t control, can’t get out of, like he wants to see me, really see me, but he can’t. Like his life, like this world, are entirely out of his control. He says nothing.
I meet his eyes. I see. He wants it. Wants to die.
All I am right now is pain.
And Brandon just stands at the door. Fighting to stay awake. Watching.
Don’t stare. Don’t stare. The needle marks on the back of his hand. Still open and bleeding. It’s been, what? Half an hour since I got out of the shower? He looks almost like himself again, eyes clear, voice steady. He cut his hair. Cut it like mine. Can’t ask why. Junkies do crazy shit all the time. Maybe it was annoying him being so long. Don’t know, don’t care, cause it’ll never be long enough to cover the marks on his arm.
Punch him. Just punch him right in the face. I squeeze my fingers together so tightly in the palm of my hand that I think I’m going to draw blood, to bleed all over. But I can’t do this right now. I need to think. I need to be focused or I’m dead. Simple as that.
Ani’s dead, too, if I mess this up. I can’t let them hurt her and I need to think but all I see are those little bleeding dots on the back of his hand and I…
“Tell me what’s going on, Ty,” B says, voice steady, sincere, like he means it, which, somewhere inside, I’m sure that he does.
Ani looks to me, wiping the streak of hair that’s bleached blond out of her eyes. I kiss her on the forehead, and say, “You were right about Rick. I was really flying drones for him, took his cash, didn’t say anything. He said he planned to tell the other kids, I think that there are five of us, but I’m the only one who figured it out. One of the missions, though, B. One of the missions was providing air coverage for these trucks. For a Pakistani security firm. They would bring in humanitarian aid or whatever, drive out of town, stop at a warehouse, pick up something else, and drive it back across the border.”
“Drugs?”
“Yeah, opium.” My voice is flat. Like roadkill.
“You have proof? I mean, did you record any of this?” he asks, words rising in pitch.
“Yup. Just about all of it. Ani backed it all up. She’s recorded everything from the first mission on as a safeguard in case the whole UCS program crashed.”
His pupils sort of narrow. He’s thinking, fighting through whatever’s going on inside so he can see, so he can sort through options. But he can’t do it. Just can’t. He leans back into the couch and I can see, can tell by that look, the look of euphoric emptiness, that he’s not able to help. He’s trying, but he just can’t. Now when I actually need him, really need him to help me figure a way out of this, he’s coming off of a high.
Have to think. Have to stay focused. We have to run. But that destroys Ani, her future, everything. Don’t have much time, either. The apartment here is in Kelly’s name, her parents are doctors or something in Milford and they cover the rent. Not wanting their baby to be homeless, I guess. But they’ll find us here soon enough. Have to come up with a plan.
“We have to go to Canada,” Ani says quietly. “See that guy who called you.”
“The guy from the paper?” I ask, trying to remember his name. Damn. “Tim, Thomas, shit. B, what’s the name of your friend in Canada?”
B looks at me, smiles. “Todd, Todd Sevier from the Montreal Standard. He’s a great guy,” B says, eyes off, out the window. “You should tell him everything. He’ll cover the story, for sure.”
“Ratting out Tidewater is going to help me how, exactly, B? They’re already trying to kill me.” I keep my hands clenched.
I look over to Ani, curled up around her laptop, and try not to think about how badly I’m ruining her life.
She says, “We have to get the word out there, Tyler. People have to know. This has to stop. The only way we can stop it is to go public.”
“You can stop them.” B’s voice is a shadow of itself.
“By holding a big, neon target sign over my head?” I lower my voice. “Over her head? No thanks.”
“We have to. We can get asylum.” Ani’s voice is taut, like a rubber band stretched too far.
“Asylum?” I say. “We’re not refugees who lost our homes in a flood or something.”
“No, but we are seeking asylum, Tyler. We can’t go to the cops here because the people trying to kill us can just waltz into the jail and shoot us in the head. They have our government’s permission to do whatever the hell they want and no cop in the world can protect us. We are sort of the definition of asylum seekers.”
I don’t want to go without her. Don’t want to go anywhere without her. B
ut I wish things were different. Wish there was a way to keep her safe.
“The border is too far. They’ll catch us.”
“We need a distraction, time,” Ani says.
I say, “Can you look up how to declare refugee status in Canada?”
Her eyes widen, just a little, like a deer, then narrow, focus.
“We have to bring evidence, right, to Todd?” I ask.
“I’ve got plenty,” Ani answers from her position on the couch, eyes never leaving the screen as her fingers fly. “Already sent a teaser to the Montreal Standard and to the Washington Post, Associated Press and Reuters. They’ll be fighting over who gets the rest. Hopefully one of them will be able to figure out how to keep us alive.”
Damn she’s smart. If I live through this I am so going to marry her some day. Well, at least ask, anyway.
B closes his eyes. “Todd’s a good guy, so good, he’ll help you out if he can.”
He’s what you could have been, B.
“It’s not enough for us to go public, Tyler. We have to stop the program,” Ani says, voice quiet. “They’re killing innocent people.”
They’re killing terrorists, too. I think. Don’t think, don’t defend Rick now. Can’t defend someone who wants to kill me, who kills children. She’s right. Mind racing through different options. Different ways to get to Rick before he gets to us. Hard. “Money?”
“Working on that.” Her voice lowers. “I started looking into a way to stop the cash flow to the program a while ago. Or at least stop Rick from profiting off of it.”
“Any luck?” I ask, angling myself against the kitchen counter so I can face her while I eat.
“I’m not sure if freezing or even emptying their accounts is going to do much to stop the program from running.” Ani reaches for her glass.
“Stop the money, stop the program,” B adds, making a sick, anguished noise. Testament to the boy that’s only half here.
“No,” I say, ready to vomit. Hate this. Hate seeing him like this. “Rick’s program is just one very small piece of Haranco. Haranco itself is just an offshoot of Tidewater. Tidewater has hundreds of companies. If Haranco needed money, they would just borrow from one of their other companies to keep it going.”
