Playing Tyler

by T L Costa

  “You’re a spy right now, Tyler, a terrorist. Leaking information about government operations is a crime. You’re leaving this station in my custody or not at all.” His words are flat. Thin. Like he doesn’t want to mean them.

  “Later.” I turn, I walk.

  It’s quiet. I don’t even hear it over the noise from the station. But I feel it. Pain. Pain bursts in through my back, just beneath my shoulder and spreads out and everywhere and it burns and oh my God this hurts so bad and I fall to the ground, force knocking me forward. It’s warm and it hurts and I can’t catch my breath to scream. Voices, but not mine. Loud. “Hey, that guy just shot his kid!” Filters in through the growing haze. Like my head is getting wrapped in layers and layers and layers of white gauze. I open my mouth and my hands claw at the dirty tile floor and I get no sound. There’s a scream. Lots of screaming. From the men with the camera. From the people around me. I hear them. Feet stamping and people dropping things and a pair of ugly white sneakers stopping in front of my face. Someone pushing into my shoulder and telling me to hold on and that everything’s going to be OK.

  But I know a lie when I hear one.

  The hallway is packed. Green, I think. But all I see are the tiles of the ceiling as they pass. The lights. Flat panels of fluorescent badness hit my eyes and I want to close them. But there’s too much to see. Like if I close them now they won’t open again. Noise comes from everywhere and nowhere specific all at once. Tubes. Beeping. Smells like plastic and the super-clean zing of oxygen coming to me from the mask. Ani’s got my hand. Slowly my eyes adjust a little and I see people in suits and uniforms and even a few dresses speaking in English and French and it’s so loud. The lights change. Ani’s hand is gone. The lights look like big flowers that are pulled right over the top of me. Someone tells me something in French, then everything, everything fades away.

  CHAPTER 30

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 5

  TYLER

  A small window looks out over Montreal’s skyline, mountains to one side, river to the other, millions of people sandwiched in between. The beeping is softer now. The steady pulse of one of the many machines they have me hooked up to. Damn, I hurt. Don’t want to admit it to Ani, though. Try to just be happy that I’m still alive and not think about the tube running up beneath my ribcage. Reinflating my lung. Stupid surgeries. The bullet went in through the back, just beneath my shoulder blade and clipped my lung. I look out the window, trying to feel like I’m someplace else, at least until all the smoke in my head clears. I’m not really ready for visitors. Well, people other than Ani, anyway, but here they are. There’s a policeman and everything.

  Some guy, maybe Todd, sits in a large wood chair, pillowed with pleather, too large for the small room. He pulls his eyes off of his phone when he hears me move. I’m young, covered in dirt, bullet hole in my body, smelly, I’m sure. I can’t blame him for looking at me like I just walked off a spaceship or something.

  “Hello there. Welcome to Canada.” The cheer in his voice is not entirely sincere, you can hear the annoyance in its undertones.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “I’ve called the authorities. Tyler, you understand this: they will record your claim of refugee status and make sure that you are given your temporary permits.”

  “Yeah,” I say. Ani called him from the bus station right before we got on the bus for Montreal. From a pay phone. The pleather on his seat just looks awful. Almost looks slimy. Gross.

  “So, what do you have for me?” he asks, not in an aggressive way, eager, sure, but not nasty.

  Ani looks over to me, handing him the first hard drive.

  I ask, “Are we on record?”

  “Yes,” he says. He has red hair. Red hair and bright blue eyes. His manner is open, smart-looking, I guess, non-judgmental. “Let’s start with your name.”

  “My name is Tyler MacCandless,” I say as Ani hands him another hard drive from her backpack. I look him dead in the eye as I say, “I’ve killed one hundred and sixteen people.”

  Including my brother.

  “Can I look at this now? Do you mind?” he asks, reaching around the back of the bad chair for his briefcase. They really have to update that chair. Looks awful.

  What if this isn’t enough? What if he can’t read the drives? They don’t believe me? They send us back. We’d be traitors. I nod.

  He exhales, a low, long sound, and plugs the hard drive into the computer he takes out of his bag. After a few minutes watching the gun camera footage of a drone piloted from my bedroom, he looks up, first at me, then Ani. “This is unbelievable.” Is that good? Bad? “I’ll sponsor you both for asylum myself,” he grins. “Mr Anderson has some pretty long arms, but we should be able to find a way to keep you safe.”

  The two guys standing against the wall move closer to the bed and start going back and forth with Todd in rapid-fire French, and I squeeze Ani’s hand, tight. “Where’s Rick?”

  “They didn’t catch him, Tyler. They chased him out of the bus station, but they didn’t catch him. His face is all over the news. For some reason they think that he’s your father, and they have the video of him shooting you on every major Canadian news network.” Ani rubs her small fingers over the back of my hand. Sound from the video must not have come through. That’s OK, though, we have plenty of evidence on the hard drives, the flashes, on the cloud. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Not lucky. Rick was in the military. If he wanted to kill me, he would have, would have shot me in the head. Why didn’t he kill me? That question’s gonna keep me up at night.

  “We will have to contact your parents. But in the meantime, can we put you both down as students? Or do you have any skills that would qualify you as skilled labor?” the policeman asks.

  The policeman is named Laurent, or so says his badge. He pours me a cup of water from a pitcher.

  The pitcher is a horrible shade of pink. Like old salmon. “Hey, can I use your phone to call my mom?” I ask, and Todd pushes me his cell across the table.

  Ani looks at Laurent and declares herself to be a student.

  “And you?” he asks, watching me move my leg back and forth beneath the covers. Need to move. Need to get out of this bed and just move. Hate this stupid bed.

  “I think I’m qualified as a skilled laborer,” I say, drawing weird looks from Todd and Laurent. “I’m really good at piloting drones.”

  A little while later, Ani’s sleeping on a cot pulled up next to my bed, curled up on top of the covers in a really weird position. I feel weak.

  A doctor walks in. Her name tag says something long and French-ish that I’m never going to be able to say right. But nobody has cared, yet. Canadians are pretty nice.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks. She’s round and kind and wearing one of those shirts that are just tragic. Her brown hair is pulled up high into a ponytail, and she starts to prod at me. Taking my blood pressure and stuff. She’s trying to be careful not to wake Ani. It’s dark outside. Must be late.

  “OK, I guess.” It’s true. I’m alive. Mom knows I’m safe, though. I had a hard time understanding her when we spoke on the phone. She couldn’t stop crying. I’ve got Ani, though, and Rick hasn’t tried to visit me in the hospital yet, which is good.

  She pulls an IV out of my arm, pushing gauze into it quick so it doesn’t hurt so badly. After a few general doctor-like questions, she hands me a little cup. Two pills. Familiar pills.

  “What are these?” I ask, staring at the pills.

  “Your new pain medication. We can’t keep you on the morphine any longer.”

  “But what are these?”

  “Oxycontin. Should help you with the pain as you recover.”

  “No. I’m not taking these,” I say and all I see is Brandon, like me, sick and broken and hurting. And this is how it all started. No. Fucking. Way.

  “But–”

  “Can’t you just give me like a super-dose of Advil or something? Please,” I say, not wanting to hear h
ow my voice wobbles and how my eyes sting and how much I miss B. How much I want him right here.

  “Alright. I’ll order you Toradol injections, it’s like ibuprofen, only stronger. But it may not take care of all of your pain, Tyler. Your injury is very serious.”

  “It’s OK.” I lean my head over, looking over at Ani’s sleeping face. “Pain’s not fatal.”

  CHAPTER 31

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 19

  ANI

  “Julie?”

  “Oh, hey babe, what’s up?” Julie sounds like she’s still half-asleep. She shouldn’t be, it’s past one out in LA.

  “Nothing.” Well, that’s not exactly true, is it? “I’m just calling to make sure you and Mom aren’t worried.”

  “Worried? Why would we be worried, what’s going on?”

  “A lot, actually.” She doesn’t know. Mom didn’t tell her? I take out millions of dollars’ worth of weaponry, Haranco’s all over the news and she doesn’t even know. She doesn’t even call? I mean, the Haranco story has been the top headline for two weeks. Even Dad managed to call – and he’s in jail.

  “Sorry, Ani, I went to this banging party last night and then I went back to Andre’s place. Have I told you about Andre? I was dating his roommate, Shane, but then Andre and I met and it was, like, real, you know?”

  “I’m in Canada, Julie. My boss tried to kill me. I created a virus to hijack the drones I put online and then I crashed them into some field in Afghanistan. But don’t let me ruin your week or anything. Have fun screwing Andre. I have to go.” I press end and look out the window of our room in Todd’s apartment at a city full of people. People with friends and sisters and boyfriends and problems. I wonder if all families are like this: messed-up somehow.

  Tyler’s talking with Todd in the small kitchen, I can hear the sound of his voice traveling down the hall and echo around the small room with the old metal bed and the lace curtains. I put the phone in my bag, wondering if all this is worth it.

  As I walk into the kitchen, I see Tyler, sitting at the far end of the small table, and when he looks up, his words stop mid-sentence, and his lips pull up into the hint of a smile. He looks at me like I am the only thing in the world worth seeing. And that is worth everything.

  CHAPTER 32

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 14

  TYLER

  They let us back into the US. It’s nuts. I never thought that they would and it took endless battles with lawyers and whatever but we were declared whistleblowers or something and allowed to go back home. I hated the aftermath. The news. The Twitter shitstorm that Peanut and Alpha unleashed the second they thought I was dead. They did great. Who needs the New York Times when you have friends like them?

  The trials. So many months of just torture. The endless reels of tape and of my mission and of grainy pictures of Rick and me together taken on my webcam and then the video from those guys in Canada that seemed to play nonstop on like every news channel ever.

  Something inside me hurt when I saw Rick’s face on the news under the banner WANTED. Ached. Just a little. I know he cared. If he didn’t he would have shot me in the head. It’s not like he hasn’t killed people before. He knows how it’s done and he chose to shoot me in the back, out through the chest. High enough so he wouldn’t snag my heart, off to the right to miss the trachea. He knew what he was doing.

  He’s MIA, still. Knew they wouldn’t catch him. Ani’s trying, following some kind of money trail, but he’s been at this kind of stuff for so long that if anybody knows how to disappear, it’s Rick.

  Althea didn’t know. At least they say that they didn’t know. Just like Tidewater disavowed any knowledge of what exactly its subsidiary Haranco was really up to. Haranco declared Rick a “rogue agent” and swore he worked alone on this. Ani believes that. She also believes her friends over at Althea. Which is fine. The country, JSOC, Congress, everybody seems to believe all of them, too. Except for me.

  Not that I’m trying to be a dick, but how do you own a company and not have any idea what it does? It just doesn’t make sense, is all.

  Ani’s back in school. Yale wouldn’t drop her. Apparently, they have fellowships for kids who are partway through school and can’t pay. We’re back in Connecticut. Mom’s here, too. Gets nervous now if I leave her sight for too long. She’s in counseling. I go sometimes, too, when she gets on my case about it. I can’t take the drugs for the ADHD. I tried, I just flake out and don’t remember so it doesn’t do me any good, anyway. It’s cool, though. Ani has me running whenever my thoughts won’t clear and it’s better.

  The Air Force wanted me. Crazy. Turns out Rick’s assessment was true. It does take three pilots to fly a single drone. Althea created a great system, just like the sim, and I let them hire me as a consultant, show them how to use fewer pilots to fly more drones. They really want me to fly them for real, though. But I’m done with that.

  I’m back in school, at a community college, and during the day, well, I’m a firefighter. I hooked up with a division of fire and rescue that flies actual planes over forest fires and keeps watch. Sucks sometimes, when nothing is happening or when we’re called out to an accident, when people don’t make it. And it’s not as cool as flying fighter jets or anything, but hell, it beats jail. Or Canada. The people were awesome but it was really freaking cold.

  Do I miss B? Every day. Some days it hurts so bad, with the guilt, with thoughts of him alone in that house, that I can barely function. But other days are OK. Days when I try to cook something for dinner that doesn’t taste like ass or when Ani and I just go for a run that lasts forever or days when we just sit by the pool in the sun are good. Really good. B is still there, still with me, in my head and in his favorite movie lines or whatever.

  But finally, for the first time I can remember, my life is moving forward. I jump as Ani slams the door behind her. Is she back from class already? Throwing down her bag, she comes over to sit next to me on the couch. She leans her head back, sighs. “Ready to get schooled at Skyreach?”

  I grab two controllers. She’s dreaming. I own that game. “Hell yeah.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There is no way I am going to be able to list by name all the people I have to thank for their help in the journey of bringing this book to print, but I will try my best. My first shout-out is to my readers, without you guys, there would be no book.

  Thank you to Joe, who talked me out of writing a choose-your-own-way book about shape-shifting zombie supermodels and insisted that I write this book instead. He is the best husband I could have asked for, the one who’s willing to help me litter the dining room table with notecards full of “turning points” and “exciting incidents” and doesn’t mind spending thirty hours in the car with me playing the “what-is-TL-going-to-write-next” game. Love you.

  To my kids, who give me purpose.

  To the incredible Kristan Higgins. Not only is she a New York Times/USA Today bestselling author, she is funny, kind, and generous. She’s helped me navigate the sometimes scary, always exciting world of publishing, and I can’t thank her enough.

  To Joanne. A friend like her is a treasure beyond all imagining. The world’s best beta-reader. She is the first person I call about everything, my second pair of eyes and ears, who is not afraid to tell me what’s what. My life and my writing never would have gotten to where it is without her.

  To my incredible agent, Jenny Bent, for believing in me and my work, and for giving this journey her all. And to the whole Bent Agency, especially Molly, the best agency team around.

  To the Strange Chemistry crew, especially my amazing editor Amanda, for taking a chance. And to the rest of the Chemistry Set, particularly Ann, Sean, Bryony and Christian, for being such a supportive bunch.

  People say that things like this take a village, in my case, it feels more like a tri-state area. My sister Holly, friends Christina, Liz, and Nicole, I love you and couldn’t have done much of anything without all these years of love and support.

&nbs
p; My amazing and loving family, who helped talk me off ledges and held me up when I was down… or as was the case after my parents’ death, didn’t have money for food or anyplace to live. I know I was young, but I am thankful for you all every day. Thank you for sacrificing so much to step up. Especially Grandma G., Cindy, Robert and William Badrigian, Grandma F., Uncle George and Aunt Carol and Douglas, Scott and George and their families, the Spencers and everyone else in the family.

  To CTRWA, the best writers group ever. Thank you for never talking down to me when I was a new writer with nothing more than a laptop and a dream. Thank you for giving my practice pitch an F (and helping me turn it into the pitch) and thank you for being there every step of the process. Especially to Peter Andrews and his wonderful How to Write Fast tips, which have become words I live by, and for being a great friend. There are so many of you to thank that this section will be over fifteen pages if I list out everyone’s name, but you are all loved and appreciated.

  To my Texans, especially to Eddie Prislac and his mad web-designing skills. To my crew from Spring, especially my teachers, thank you. And my CT friends and cheerleaders, especially Sarah D., the Taylor clan, the Girard-Menchettis, and Mr. Hagan and everyone at the Y, Master Gary’s kickboxing and Good Shepherd Church. And thanks to God.

  To my friends from BMC, especially Kim and Amanda and Ginger and Heather and Lauren and Em and well, everyone. Being around brilliant women is good for the soul.

  STRANGE CHEMISTRY

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  and a member of the Osprey Group

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